New Utopia
by kopycat101
Summary: Everyone knows of the newly born generation, and of the Golden Age of peace. But what of the time just after the war's end, the children who lived during Voldemort's reign, and the struggles people had to face? What of Hogwarts, and the education of its previous and potential students? McGonagall's busy, and this middle generation of children have a lot of adapting to do.
1. Prologue: After the Battle

**AN**: Welcome to New Utopia! This fic is going to be a long ride, that's going to help explain and expand on what people were dealing with in the years following the last war.

We see fics all the time, centering around our favorite characters during this time, or of the Next Generation- but rarely do we see any about the exact repercussions, or how just normal people were dealing with things during this time. So _this fic will follow the troubles of the new Hogwarts students and Professors in the years right after the war_, but way before the Next Gen attend.

This story also takes characters by Hoprocker's SYOTs. It includes many characters from them, and _I actually only own a very small handful of the OCs in this story_. So this fic has more than 2 dozen OCs incorporated, all from different creators. Don't worry, this can be read stand-alone, but I recommend Hoprocker's insanely awesome stories anyways.

_I know that this fic is OC-centric right now, but canon characters start showing up and starring in the story by Chapter 1.2!_

* * *

><p>∞U∞T∞O∞P∞I∞A∞<p>

Prologue: After the Battle

∞U∞T∞O∞P∞I∞A∞

In the early hours of May 2nd of 1998, the Dark Wizard Lord Voldemort fell. This day marked the end of the Second Wizarding War.

The word had spread quickly amongst the magical population. Finally, Voldemort's reign of terror was over. There was no longer the danger of their families being tortured, being slaughtered, being captured and turned into mindless slaves.

Harry Potter had managed to save them all. He truly was The Chosen One, the child born from Prophecy. He defeated the most powerful Dark Lord in centuries, at just seventeen.

Harry Potter ended the war.

Some were still in disbelief, or were still deeply in hiding—the news having not reached them.

0∞0∞0

_A boy of about ten stared wide-eyed at the door that lead out into the cruel outside world, in his best friend's home. His mother was clutching him and his friend protectively, the girl's mother busy with her younger brothers. They were all huddled closely to another, in the smallest, most secure room in the house._

_The girl's mother had her arms full of her youngest son—just a mere baby—trying to keep him content and asleep. The second youngest—a boy of about three—was clinging onto her as well._

_"Things'll be okay," his friend said in a wavering, frightened voice, the comment barely coming out in a whisper. She was clutching his hand so much, that he could barely feel it anymore._

_"I hope so, Gliss," the cloud-haired boy murmured between bloodless lips. _

0∞0∞0

_A little blonde girl sat in her room, hidden in her closet, huddling closely with her two best friends. She hugged them closely to her chest, her thoughts swirling dangerously in her mind._

_Her older sister was out there, in danger. They said Hogwarts was the safest place, but **nowhere** was safe anymore. Her big sister was probably scared, and surrounded by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's evil henchmen._

_At that thought, the usually bitter 8-year-old buried her face in her plush animals' soft fur, crying her eyes out for her sister Zenovia._

_She only had her best friends and her closet. Those were the only safe things in her world._

0∞0∞0

_A woman in hysterics clutched her fair-haired ten-year-old daughter to her chest._

_"What if H-He calls me to H-Him, a-and I have to—I have to," the woman blubbered, stroking the young girl's ringlets._

_"Honey, it's okay," the woman's husband said, trying to sooth his wife, as he held her to him. "He probably just has his high-ranking Death Eaters with him, and—"_

_The little girl shrunk into herself further, when her mother burst into another round of noisy tears._

_"W-What if H-He **does**, though!" the woman wailed, her words barely discernible through her blubbering._

_The young girl, Cicely, hoped that he wouldn't— for **all** their sakes._

0∞0∞0

However, a good majority of the magical population **had** heard of the groundbreaking finale. Many witches and wizards across Britain, and its neighbors, burst into celebration at the news of the fallen Dark wizard.

0∞0∞0

_In a whirl of confusing activity, the ten-year-old girl found herself being dragged into a sudden, rambunctious celebration, by her parents._

_Everything was a burst of color—various people doing bouts of celebratory magic, wearing colorful robes, or using various joke products from Zonko's Joke Shop or Weasley's Wizard Wheezes._

_Viatrix loved it all—she felt happy and alive, now that the war was over. Now that no one had to worry about You-Know-Who, or follow his strict rules, hiding in pure and utter fear._

_She didn't even mind that her dress robes were itchy and uncomfortable. She simply lost herself in the joy radiating from every single person._

0∞0∞0

_Perrin felt the energy flow through himself, as well as all the other guests, at the party. _

_He couldn't keep himself still—he bounced back and forth between various places in his home, hair cycling through bright colors, elated for all the attention his family was getting for throwing this fabulous party. _

_It's honestly been too long since the House of Halliday has been at the top of Wizarding Society, in his humble opinion. They hadn't gotten much recognition since the boon when his grandfather introduced the Wizarding World with a magic-patented radio. _

_The Wizarding Wireless was so commonplace nowadays, that the ingenuity and novelty had worn away, making the Halliday Family drift back below the other prominent Pureblood Houses once more._

_But no more! His family—and of course himself, by extension—where finally back at top, as the elites they were!_

_Why, it was **criminal** how such a stable, Ancient House had been discredited and thrown to the wayside for so long. Their family name branched out farther than even the Blacks, and dated back well before the 11th century._

_Maybe it was because they were rooted in Scotland, rather than Britain._

_"I'm just **so** glad tha' You-Know-Who managed to not get his bloody claws fully into Scotland! Tha' would have honestly been the worst for us," he heard his Mam say loudly to fellow high-society witches, his baby sister cradled in her arms._

_The group of women tittered, and the blue-haired boy's mouth split into a grin. His mother was strict and the meanest witch possible, but she sure knew how to word things to sound like she cared about the little people. _

_The 'us' she'd mentioned had obviously been the Hallidays. If You-Know-Who had managed to get ahold of the Hallidays, it would've been ugly—even **he** knew this, and he was only eight. The Hallidays were too pro-Muggle to join that Dark Wizard, but too pro-Pureblood to be cast aside as blood traitors._

_The boy cast his complicated thoughts and worries away, and decided to enjoy the party to the fullest. He proceeded to flit about the house, gaining the attention and adoration of the adults with his charm, his hair turning golden from his joyous energy._

_He could certainly get used to this._

0∞0∞0

_Casca smoothly winded his way through all the partygoers with ease. _

_It was quite the large celebration. A bit impromptu, but his family arranged it quickly enough. _

_Why, it could even be considered the biggest celebration party for the end of the Second Wizarding War. It was full to the brim with people of various positions—mostly of high societal and government positions, of course, but there were various war heroes and duelers among the crowd as well._

_And it was a **very** fun, joyous party. He was incredibly giddy, spurred by the energy in the air, and his natural youthful energy. He even let his perfectly crafted, calm persona slowly melt away, as he chatted and enjoyed the festivities, celebrating with everyone._

_It was an incredibly good time for the Vaesleys, right now. First, obviously, the war was over. Then there was the fact that his father helped the war effort—sending as many healing potions as possible to the side of the Light, without being discovered by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. And finally, the Vaesleys were some of the wealthiest people, and threw this spectacular spur-of-the-moment bash that encompassed a large mass of people._

_The Vaesleys were always a minor, humble Pureblood house. Many of the top Pureblood Houses had deemed them too 'un-pure' or 'soft', with the fact that they never persecuted their own because of frivolities like being a Squib, or for one of their members marrying someone who wasn't a Pureblood. _

_There were the constant Halfbloods and Muggleborns marrying into the family tree, but the Vaesleys persisted with their strategic allowance of new blood, talent, and fortune into their House. _

_And it paid off—many of their witches and wizards were very powerful, very intelligent, and very sane. The same could not be said for other Pureblood houses, such as the Blacks or Lestranges. _

_It currently showed how solid their Family was, with the fact that they were now the richest, most beloved Pureblood House left—if one didn't count the heroic Potter, Longbottom, Bones, and Weasley Houses._

_Then again, Harry Potter was technically a Halfblood, the Weasleys were financially poor, and both the Bones and Longbottoms had quite the tragedy befalling them, barely holding on to a thread._

_Now the House of Vaesley was at the top of the ladder, the highest in the Wizarding World food chain, after so many generations of having sat in snide disdain and obscurity._

_And it was all thanks to his brilliant businessman of a father. Everyone's hero—especially his. So brave, smart, resourceful, and righteous—definitely someone who could help leading the newest generation of Wizarding Britain._

_"Casca, my boy, come here!" his father's voice called throughout the large ballroom, the blonde boy easily picking it through the hubbub of the party._

_With a wide grin, that showed how young the blonde was, he made his way through the celebrating witches and wizards, to stand proudly next to his father._

0∞0∞0

The people would embrace one another, grateful that they were alive, that their loved ones who had fought in the Battle came back.

0∞0∞0

_The strawberry-blonde girl sat huddled with the large group of children, inside the safe confines of her home._

_It had been a few hours since the students of Hogwarts streamed into Hogsmeade, evacuating from Hogwarts. A few hours since most of the adults—including her parents—marched towards the castle, going in as reinforcements. _

_Her parents had told her to stay in their home, invite as many lone children to hide as possible. In the end, almost a hundred other kids swarmed into their large home. Most of them were Hogsmeade children, young and defenseless like herself, not even **near** the age to have a wand. Others were Hogwarts students, who had wands and could help protect them—even a handful of older students, fifth and sixth years._

_She was grateful for those few older kids being there. The congregation of children was too dense to leave them quivering and frightened, without anyone to help them, in one building. _

_She angrily wished that she was old enough to fight along her parents, or at least old enough to have a wand and be able to protect the littles, her fellow Hogsmeade kids. _

_Suddenly, cheers resonated in the streets. The children looked around wildly, barely believing the noise._

_Her parents suddenly entered their home, and Brianne quickly waded her way through all the bodies to embrace them. Shouts of jubilation and childish glee seemed to rock the walls of their home, as her parents exclaimed that the battle was over, they won, they won, they **won**! You-Know-Who is no more, and they were **safe**!_

_The Hogsmeade children streamed out of the Ravelle home, running into the streets, back into their homes. _

_Brianne held her parents close, not even considering the fact that some of her neighbors wouldn't be coming back. All she could feel and register was that her parents were alive and well, and that she was **hugging** them, and she felt warm and safe._

_"Most of the reinforcements made it back," her mother murmured in her hair. "We're alright. We're **alive**."_

_The small family cried happily together, completely engrossed in each other, cheers ringing around them._

0∞0∞0

_A bedraggled man in torn and stained Aurors robes stumbled into his home, feeling oddly elated despite how tired he was, and how much death he'd seen during the Battle._

_"Dad!" an ecstatic, high-pitched voice shouted. Before he knew it, his youngest son had flung himself in his arms._

_Laughing happily, the man picked up the boy, swinging him in an arc, and exclaimed, "Zion! My boy!"_

_The man's wife rushed forwards, his eldest son closely behind her. As his wife hugged and babbled over him, crying in relief for his return, his eldest son apologized for not fighting with him. He replied with a simple terse look, stating that he'd rather his boy stay safe and had evacuated with the other students, rather than getting hurt._

_"Dad, Dad—So you really beat them?" his younger son asked enthusiastically, bouncing on his feet._

_"Sure did, sport—I beat **all** the bad guys! So now there's nothing more to worry about," the man replied with a booming laugh, as he ruffled the eleven-year-old's hair. _

_The Auror didn't dare mention the fact that he'd have to go into overtime to haul all the Death Eaters that had survived, into Azkaban prison. Nor did he mention that large portions of Hogwarts were destroyed, and there was a strong possibility that his little future auror wouldn't be able to attend next year._

0∞0∞0

Many were so grateful for the war ending, that they forgot that there were other families mourning.

0∞0∞0

_A brunette woman sat in the basement of her home, sobbing, as she cradled her young son to her chest._

_"Pierce…Pan…" she choked through her tears, her voice utterly hopeless. _

_It had been hours since her husband and eldest son had rushed out to go help those fighting at Hogwarts. _

_Pan—in an atypical Hufflepuff fashion—had insisted on going back to fight and help his friends, with the logic that he was of an adult in both Muggle and Magical tradition and should have the choice to do so. His father had agreed, whilst she'd vehemently, hysterically denied. _

_Pierce decided to join his eldest son—in an atypical Gryffindor fashion—to go and fight for the Light, to end You-Know-Who's reign. Neither had allowed her to sway them, despite all her pleading._

_They were going to do what's right, to be heroes, to stand up for everything they believed in. They would **not** let a Muggle-hating maniac hurt and kill more people—not after the Death Eaters attacked their Muggle neighborhood a few weeks ago, and **especially** because **she** was un-magical._

_And just a few minutes ago, her neighbor Homer came back, with news: they hadn't made it._

_Pierce and Pantameleon Palenciste were dead._

_Her small son Locce looked up at her, eyes desolate, as she sobbed even harder. He slowly wiped her face with his tiny, dark-skinned hand, showing her that she still had **him** with her._

_It was only a little comfort, but it was all that the poor boy could muster, in his numb haze._

_His father…His brother…Both dead. Gone._

_And he never told them he loved them._

0∞0∞0

Why, the majority of the Wizarding World of Britain forgot about how large the blow to Death Eater's families truly was. That those families **also** lost precious loved ones, and they were **also** grieving.

0∞0∞0

_"Why isn't he back yet? He should be back!" the 4th year Slytherin said to himself, as he paced back and force in his family's living room._

_"I mean, we were evacuated, and then His forces came in…Father should've found a way to slip away and get back by now!" the boy said louder, almost in hysterics, running a hand through his hair._

_"It couldn't have been **that** easy," his little sister muttered, as she sat perched on an armchair. "Both sides of a war lose people. He could be dead, or captured, Gamlen."_

_"Don't say things like that!" the children's mother cried out, before weeping in her hands._

_"He's a Batiatus! He has Greek warrior blood running through his veins—we both do, Judith! He **can't** have lost!" the boy roared towards the eleven-year-old, who simply glared at him._

_"Just putting the idea out there, shite-for-brains. I'm being realistic," she snarled at him. "If Potter really **is** the child of Prophecy, then the Dark Lord is doomed, and so are a majority of his followers. It's not like I **want** Papa to lose, or anything…"_

_The boy softened, when he saw the tears in his usually strong sister's eyes. His mother gave a loud shriek, and clutched the girl to her. It was a testament to how hard this was affecting them all, when the girl hugged the woman back tightly, and he joined their little hug-fest._

_A day passed in utter nerves. Then news came to the Batiatus Family, in the form of an Auror._

_"I'm Auror Kim," the Asian man told the family, when the House Elf opened the door, the Batiatus right behind the creature. "Your husband was captured during the Battle of Hogwarts, found in Death Eater robes, and holding the Dark Mark. He is going to be held on trial, and your family will be put on probation, as well as your house searched for Dark artifacts and evidence."_

_The man tried to keep himself emotionless as possible. Even when the frazzled woman burst into noisy tears, and slid to the floor. Even when the boy—a Slytherin, by the colors of his tie—glared at him with venom, before sinking down to comfort his mother. Even when the little girl—about the same age as his son, Zion—stared at him with the iciest eyes that no child should ever have._

_"We didn't do **anything**," the dark-skinned girl stated coldly. "My brother and I are too young to have followed **Him**—" here, she spit the word out angrily "—and Mother only busied herself with the House Elfs."_

_The girl straightened, managing to look intimidating despite her youth— especially with the golden chain and green vine tattoos spiraling down her arms, contrasting with her black skin._

_"You could search us all you want, but you'll **only** find evidence on my Father having allegiance with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. **That** is a fact," she stated, hiding her grief behind her fury._

_When the man left, the family held onto one another, tears wetting their faces. _

_They all knew that the patriarch of the House of Batiatus would be thrown in Azkaban for a very long time, and there was nothing they could do about it._

0∞0∞0

_"No…" the black-haired girl muttered, shaking profusely. "Papa…Papa can't—"_

_"He was," her mother said tiredly, her face wet with tears. "He fought during the Battle, and was injured and captured. They'll probably throw him in Azkaban…"_

_"But he didn't **want** to!" the ten-year-old girl shrieked, waking up her baby brother in another room of the house. Her mother gave a harried, worried glance at the door. _

_However, her friend Roulay Weiger was thankfully with them in the house, and had volunteered to take care of her small boys whilst she told her eldest child the horrible news. She, along with her boy, Chip, were most likely soothing the little ones._

_"I know he didn't, Gliss…He was forced into taking the Mark," the woman said, already hating how tired and hopeless she felt. _

_"S-So they shouldn't…They **shouldn't**—" her daughter choked out, and the woman enveloped her in a tight hug._

_"I know, but…H-He was one of the leaders. A **commander**. Even if he was forced into it, they'll **never** let him go away innocent. Not after the First Wizarding War, where lots of the Death Eaters got away," the woman explained, her voice bleak and thin, wobbling dangerously. "They'll see that he's a bad man, see the bad things he did—"_

_"But he's **not**!" the girl wailed vehemently. "He's not, he's not, he's **not**!"_

_"Th-They w-won't see it i-in **our** perspective, honey," the mother sobbed, rocking the girl in her arms. "P-Papa's gonna b-be thrown i-in Azkaban. And w-we have to b-be strong without h-him."_

_The two sobbed together, for the loss of innocence, and the loss of their loving father._

0∞0∞0

_"Daphne, honey, I have to tell you something," the girl's mother started tentatively, fiddling with the rings on her fingers._

_"Father's either dead or captured, isn't he?" the girl stated bluntly, her eyes hidden by her dark prescription glasses, and her features blank._

_"H-How did you…?" her mother asked, mouth agape._

_The girl sighed, sagging slightly. "Mother, it's **obvious** from all the cheering and partying in the streets that You-Know-Who is dead. Honestly, do you hear the people sing? It's the feeling of a people that won't be slaves or dictated again."_

_The woman paused, eyes turning calculating. "Honestly, you're a shoe-in for Ravenclaw, honey."_

_The girl gave a grim smile. "If Hogwarts is still standing, that is. You-Know-Who wouldn't have gone down easily. So—is Father d-dead, or…?"_

_Here, the eleven-year-old's mask wavered, showing her grief of her father's fate. She bit harshly on her lip, her shark-like teeth drawing coppery liquid._

_The woman sighed, bringing her daughter into an embrace. "N-No…Just captured. Most likely going to be chucked in Azkaban for a good number of years, i-if not for life. It's probable that he'll be there for life, considering how much of a hypocritical fanatic he was about blood purity."_

_The girl sighed, giving an involuntary sob. "W-Why couldn't he have been a Ravenclaw too…? His ambition got him imprisoned—and he c-could have **died**."_

_"I know Daphne, I know," her mother murmured, soothingly running her hand through her daughter's straight hair. _

_The young girl merely sobbed into her mother, a mix of confusing emotions, not knowing what she should be feeling anymore._

0∞0∞0

That, or the populace simply forced the Death Eater's families out of their minds, feeling as if they didn't deserve pity or mourning just yet.

0∞0∞0

_"Horatia, honey," a harried woman said, voice strained, "I need to tell you something."_

_"What is it?" the young, dark-haired girl asked disinterestedly. She was currently flipping through yesterday's edition of the Daily Prophet, wondering what her father saw in it that was so interesting. It's not like the Dark Lord found Potter or anything…_

_"Your father—and your Uncle Petrovich…They're both…" the woman trailed off, biting her lip._

_This caught the girl's attention._

_"What? What about Daddy and Uncle?" Horatia asked, her eyes soon becoming bright. "Did they help the Dark Lord with something great? Did they find Potter?" She wriggled in her seat, a disconcerting look upon the face of such a young girl._

_"They're dead, honey," the mother finally choked out, past the odd lump in her throat. "There was a battle at Hogwarts. Them, some of the other Death Eaters, the Dark Lord—they're dead. Only your cousin Pansy managed to escape from the battle alive."_

_The girl froze, the smile sliding off her face. Her eyes grew incredibly wide._

_"No…" she mumbled weakly. "No, that can't…"_

_"It is," her mother said firmly, a hard look on her face. "And we can go past this! Your father managed to elude taking the Dark Mark, and with the Parkinsons as a poster-family for Death Eaters, we can go scotch-free! We don't have to leech off of them any longer, nor do we have to be considered a minor family—the Vici name will be the best!"_

_Her daughter's face, however, colored red in rage, and she began to throw a tantrum._

_"But I want Daddyyyyyyy!" she shrieked, showing her obvious youth of 6 years. "He's not gonna be here to give me any more presents! I want Daddy's presents! Waaaaaaaaa!"_

_"Well, we'll just have to get a new daddy!" the woman snapped ferociously, burying her grief under a harsh mask. "One who'll give you even better presents, and make us the most richest Pureblood family!"_

_The girl hiccupped, quieting down her wailing. She had a contemplative look on her face, before nodding crisply._

_"You better get the best, most richest Pureblood Wizard, Mummy. My birthday's in two months, and I want the bestest presents **ever**!" the young girl exclaimed, the grisly demise of her Uncle and Daddy forgotten in place of fortune._

_"Don't worry, I will. I already have someone in mind—Uncle Jonas," the mother stated primly. He'd be sympathetic to her plight, with the death of his older brother in the Battle, leaving his family behind. It'd be easy—much easier than finding an eligible, high-end Pureblood Wizard in these times._

_Jonas Vici was younger, smarter, and more attractive than her late husband, as well. Not to mention, that he held the other part of the Vici fortune. With him as her husband, their wealth would exponentially grow._

_Her daughter grinned. "Uncle Jonas always gives amazing birthday presents. Go get him, Mummy."_

_They'd both have to put aside whatever feelings and grief they had, to move on._

∞U∞T∞O∞P∞I∞A∞

* * *

><p><strong>Extra Notes<strong>:

_-The Daphne in this story is **not** Daphne Greengrass._

-Locce Palenciste, plus his family and neighbors, are my OCs. Every other person in this are someone else's OCs.

-I have lost control of my life


	2. Prologue: After the Battle (Part 2)

**AN**: My first reviewer, confidant, and fellow writer brought up how the first chapter was **way** too long and daunting. After I sat on the issue, I realized that, yes- it is. So I'm splitting it into 2 parts. Again, Hoprocker is amazing, go read her stuff.

Canon characters won't show up until next chapter or so, whoops. For now, it's alllll OCs. You can hex me later.

* * *

><p>∞U∞T∞O∞P∞I∞A∞<p>

Prologue: After the Battle (Part 2)

∞U∞T∞O∞P∞I∞A∞

Those next few days were full of a mixture of celebration and mourning, all across the Wizarding World.

But it was also a time where those who fled Britain came trickling back, now that the danger was finally gone.

0∞0∞0

_"C'mon, Elara," the fourteen-year-old boy told his little sister gently, her hand firmly in his. "We're going."_

_"Going where…?" the blonde girl asked curiously, in her usual dreamy manner._

_"We're going back to Britain. It's all over—we can go back, and no evil wizards can hurt us any longer," the boy explained patiently, already used to his little sister's ditzy nature._

_His hand tightened around hers, at the thought of the Death Eaters, of You-Know-Who. They were **finally** defeated. The bastards who killed their parents, who took over Hogwarts, who made them live a desolate life on the run—were now dead, or imprisoned. _

_Now they couldn't hurt them—the little Blackwood orphans—or anyone else any longer. They could go back to their home country of Britain—they had just enough money for some ferry and bus fare, left from the emergency stash his parents had hidden in their old home, before their home had been attacked._

_And if it wasn't enough, he could always ask help from the Scottish Witches and Wizards that were celebrating around them._

_"Oh…Is that why so many people are happy…?" Elara asked. "And how so many are wearing magic robes, like you used to?"_

_"Yes. Yes, exactly," he confirmed quickly. "It's why all the good magical people are celebrating. And we can go back."_

_"Alright," she agreed placidly. "I trust you, big bro."_

_The boy grinned down at his sister. "Good."_

_The Blackwood siblings managed to make their way back to Britain, with the jolly and sympathetic help of various magical folk from Scotland._

_The boy knew that they technically had nothing left in Britain, but he still wanted to return anyway. It was all he really knew, the only country he was truly comfortable in. _

_They were alike to many others who returned to Britain—similar to other fugitives, Muggleborns, and terrified people. They came back, despite losing so much, despite the awful memories._

_They were also alike to many of the orphans from the War. They were put into cramped orphanages, picked off the streets and out of ruins, as people tried to connect with one another and put their lives back together._

0∞0∞0

_"I'm just **so** grateful that your cousins allowed us to hide with them," a woman told her husband in a low voice, as they entered their home once more. She was keeping her voice low to not catch her daughter's attention, and wake her young, wheelchair-ridden son. _

_"Me too," her husband admitted, breathing a sigh of relief when the family entered the living room of their mini-mansion once more. _

_The House of Fraus were originally from Italy. During the Global Wizarding World at the start of the 20th century, caused by Grindelwald, the Pureblood Italians had fled to Britain. One of the sons staid in the country, once Grindelwald was slayed, to start a British branch of the Fraus Family._

_And ironically enough, Voldemort caused the Fraus to return to Italy because of a harsh war. Not just once, but **twice**._

_ But the British Fraus' were too comfortable and distant from their cousins to ever stay permanently in Italy—they always returned to the bleak English country._

_The family went around the home slowly, to check on it, and the married couple were happy to note that everything was still intact. Good; they weren't robbed, and You-Know-Who had never destroyed their home in anger for when they fled._

_Then again, the Fraus were always low-key Purebloods, not very popular because of their obvious foreign origins._

_The adults led their daughter to her room, making sure she was well accustomed once more. Then, the couple entered their son's room, to settle the weak boy into his bed._

_"I'm so glad **He** never got to us, before we fled…If he'd seen Mobius, then—"the blonde woman bit her lip harshly, cutting herself off. She smoothed out the little 7-year-old's hair, in a sudden and rare show of strong maternal love._

_"Yes—he would have killed him, if he'd seen how weak the boy was," the husband muttered desolately, running a hand through his hair tiredly with a pained sigh._

_The two left the handicapped boy's room, not noticing the tear that fell down the child's cheek._

_At least they were all safe, once more._

0∞0∞0

Europe was in such a state—particularly Britain—that even the Muggles noticed.

0∞0∞0

_A very peeved woman walked into the living room, and saw her son staring at the telly with rapt attention. Something called The European Soundmix Show was on, where European singers imitated famous musical artists._

_"Antony, **why** aren't you outside, with friends, like **normal** children?" the mother said in exasperation._

_"I **am** normal, Mum—I'm watching a popular TV series, like many other kids my age," the boy countered, his eyes still glued on the screen._

_"Well, it's much better for you to be outside! Even practicing your fencing with that foal would be better than sitting in here, on a nice day!" the woman went on, chiding her effeminate son, who gave a very dramatic sigh._

_"It's a **foil**, Mum. You'd think that after six months of my Fencing lessons, you'd learn what the weapon is called," the boy countered sassily, sparing a glance at the harried woman._

_"Well **I** am not the one taking the lessons, Antony. And that is beside the point!" the woman countered quickly._

_"Point, like the **point** at the end of a foil?" the boy joked quietly, giving a snicker at his brilliance._

_His mother looked down at her wristwatch in irritation. "I'll be going to work soon, and I simply cannot leave you here alone, while you lazily watch television. Do you want me to drop you off at a friend's house, dear?"_

_"Mmmmm, I'll be fine here. I'm responsible, and I'll hold down the fort. Don't want anyone to break in," the little boy said languidly, as he lay down and draped himself across the couch._

_The woman gave a huff. "Well, I'm getting you outside anyway!" she said resolutely, as she hauled up her sole child, turned off the accursed magical box, and began to march him towards the door._

_"Muuuuuuuum," the boy whined, as he tried to drag his feet and pretend to be a sack of potatoes, to slow down her progress. _

_"You'll get paler and unhealthier if you stay in here all day, mister!" the fierce businesswoman stated, as she opened the front door of her home, her drama-king of a son in tow._

_In the face of the bright outside world, Antony hissed theatrically, shielding his eyes. "It buuuuurns! All the colors, all the lights—it **buuuuurns**!" he bellowed, as dramatic as a Shakespearean protagonist. _

_When he received no snapping response from his mother, the little boy uncovered his eyes, and saw the most odd sight he could ever imagine._

_Fireworks whizzing about the streets, making incredibly bizarre and complicated patterns, never seeming to burn out. Showers of colorful sparks and lights shooting across the streets. Usually inanimate objects tap-dancing down the road. Small toys—of a boy, who had a lightning bolt on his forehead—running about, as if marionettes, without any visible strings._

_A grin bloomed on Antony's face, widening with each spectacular feat he took in._

_"If this is how it's usually like outside, then I'll definitely go out more! It's like my magical box!" the boy exclaimed, somewhat jokingly, as he righted himself. _

_He quickly got out of his mother's grip—which was slack, the woman gaping in astonishment at the outside world bursting into sudden theatrical feats, as if a program on the accursed telly that her son loved so much. The boy gave an odd whoop, as he ran down the street with boundless energy that she never knew he possessed._

0∞0∞0

_"Mum, Mum! There's a concert going on!" the enthusiastic brown-haired boy shouted, as he ran through his home, looking for his mother._

_"Ryiero, no running in the house!" his mother exclaimed from another room. The boy grinned, skidding in the hallway, quickly changing direction. He ran swiftly, his sock-clad feet hammering away on the hardwood floor. He burst into the Study, where his mother was currently writing something._

_"Mum, there's a concert going on! Can I go? Pleaaaase please please please?" the nine-year-old asked giddily, jumping up and down in place._

_The woman sighed, annoyed, as she sat down her pen and turned to look at her son. She should've seen him coming to disrupt her from her work. And she still had thirty forms to fill…_

_"Ryiero, there **isn't** a concert going on today," she stated with a somewhat confused frown. "And there certainly would **not** be one at this hour."_

_"But Muuuuum—" the brunette boy whined, "I can hear the cheering, and see the lights, from even my bedroom! There **is** a concert!"_

_His mother's frown deepened. "That doesn't sound right…" she said aloud to herself, sounding perturbed and worried, now._

_"C'mon, I'll show you! I'll prove it!" the boy announced, his boundless energy returned, as he brightly smiled up at her. Before she could object, he grabbed onto her arm, and dragged her out of the Study and towards his room._

_"See!" he pointed excitedly at his open window, once they were inside his messy room. In any other circumstance, she would admonish the state of his room, but her attention was rooted at the window._

_The mother cautious neared the window, shocked, as she saw the 'light show' and heard the loud cheering. It seems as if her son's room—and window—was at an optimal point for this odd event. She hadn't even heard or seen anything, when she was writing in the Study._

_Outside was a colorful dance of various lights shooting through the sky, and the cheering was loud. In the distance, she could see the large group of people, all wearing what looked like…Robes? Coats? _

_"So can I, Mum? Can I go? It's not that far, and I'll be careful, I promise!" her son pleaded, his voice snapping her out of her daze._

_"No…No, you can't go, Ryiero," she stated in a daze, wondering if that Aspirin she took earlier was making her drowsy, or some such. "You can watch and hear it fine from here, honey, and you won't have to use your allowance money for tickets. You can save it for later."_

_The pouting child brightened considerably, and he did a little dance. "Great idea, Mum! And I can sit in here, and eat snacks, too!"_

_Before she could tell him to not clean out the kitchen cabinets for his snack craving, her son sprinted out of his room as if he was running for the Gold in the Olympics._

_The woman sighed, suddenly becoming very tired. "I should take a break," she decided warily. "I must have overworked myself."_

_Ryiero enjoyed the 'concert' to its fullest, falling asleep when it got late. His dreams were filled with fantastical flashing lights, energetic robed people, and cheering._

0∞0∞0

_"Reyn, **please** get back inside the house," said a tired man wearily, as he stood in the doorway of his small home. _

_"But Papa—There's fireworks goin' on!" his six-year-old daughter exclaimed, eyes wide in wonder as she looked back at him._

_"No, honey, there's not—" the man, who was stressed and looked older than his years, finally looked up at the sky. _

_He can't believe he never noted it before. Perhaps he was just too tired from his 12 hour shift at the factory, or perhaps it was because fireworks were never set off at this time of the year._

_Whatever the reason, the young Mr. Monrove had completely overlooked the obvious sight of bright, colorful fireworks taking over the sky. _

_"Blimey…" he muttered in awe, as he stared at the bursts of colorful light, the fantastical patterns, the **magic** of the sight._

_"Can I stay up to watch them more, Papa? Pleeeeeease?" his little girl asked, eyes wide and pleading. She was silhouetted by the beautiful light of the lightshow, her hair shining golden; she was utterly bewitching._

_Mr. Monrove felt his resolve crumble. His little girl never got to experience many good things, since they were so poor. Doubly so, as a family, since both him and his wife had to work relentlessly to win money, with only partial secondary educations._

_Could he **really** take away the joy and wonder of a public fireworks display from her…?_

_"Alright," he told her, then added quickly, "but we're not going to stay up that late when watching this." _

_His daughter cheered, causing him to smile softly at her, the stress lines on his young face evaporating. He sat down gingerly on the door's front step, and the tiny blonde plopped down next to him, watching the sky in childish glee._

_He wished he could thank whoever was doing this. _

_And hopefully, more good things would happen to Reyn in the future._

0∞0∞0

_Junisse was currently over at Matthise's house, working on her homework with him._

_They didn't have much, being only ten—but they still liked going over to one another's houses, to play, and finish their schoolwork together._

_They were currently sprawled across the boy's room, chatting about nothing and everything, before Junisse noted something oddly bright from the corner of her eye._

_The frizzy-haired girl turned her head, trying to find the source of the light. Her eyes landed on the bedroom's sole window, and what she saw made her eyes brighten._

_"Matt, look—shooting stars!" she said breathlessly, a wide grin spreading across her face._

_"No way!" her friend exclaimed, scrambling quickly to get a look outside his window. "Wooooow, there's a lot of 'em!" he noted in awe._

_"One, two, three, four…" Junisse started counting, her heart pounding with each one that streaked across the night sky. "Seven…Plus the two I saw, and three we both noted together…Twelve. Merlin…"_

_Both children were elated, smiling brightly at one another, as they both managed to plant themselves in front of the window._

_"I've never seen so many shooting stars in my life—and I never knew that so many could pass at once!" the boy said giddily, and they both burst into happy giggles._

_"It's almost like **magic**," the girl noted with a nod, before giving a content sigh._

0∞0∞0

The overwhelming blanket of hope upon them was contagious, however. It was akin to the celebrations after the end of the First Wizarding War: wizards swarming the streets, celebrating, letting the news flow from their mouths despite the Statute of Secrecy.

0∞0∞0

_The blonde boy ran, weaving through the people that meandered the streets easily, having done so almost every day. He just got out of school for the day, and he was going to go and see if his dad needed any help at the restaurant._

_Just as he got to the small walkway that led to the side of Hera's Haven Restaurant and Bar, he saw some very odd people. They were swathed in what looked like bathrobes, happily chatting and cheering._

_Duke paused, staring, despite how rude staring was. Just as he was about to ask the strangers if they had come from playing a game of some sort, his father stuck his head out of the side-door of the restaurant—specifically, the kitchen._

_"Duke, m'boy, I need you to help me wash and peel the carrots!" his Dad boomed, gaining his son's attention. The man looked sweaty and tired, but he was smiling brightly at the nine-year-old._

_"Coming!" the boy called back, a wide grin on his face, as he rushed towards the side-door._

_"See—even the Muggles can live happily and safely, now with Him gone!" one of the robed figures said genially. The boy stalled for a second, looking back at them—whilst they stared at him—before he rushed into the kitchen to help his father with the simple task of washing vegetables. _

_Duke soon forgot about these odd people, as he lost himself in the rush of the kitchens._

0∞0∞0

_A nerdy boy with large, square spectacles stared in wonder at the robed people filling the streets. A large smile was plastered on his face, as he took in the joy these people were radiating. The energy they had was kinetic—making him feel their joy and relief._

_"Moses, do you think they came from a roleplaying event of some sort?!" the boy asked the boy next to him enthusiastically. Said boy snorted._

_"You're **such** a nerd," Moses mumbled, passing his hand through his shaggy hair. "'Course they're not. They're celebrating You-Know-Who being vanquished, and his reign of terror ending."_

_The spectacles-wearing boy paused in his antsy little dance, staring at the other boy oddly. "And how'd you know that, exactly…?"_

_The shaggy-haired boy snorted. "Apollo, they've literally been saying that type of stuff— if you paid their words any attention, instead of just drooling over their robes and squirming like you gotta pee—"_

_"Lord, no! That's so crass, Moses!" the nerdy boy, Apollo, cried. "I was simply enjoying the atmosphere, and wondering what such uniquely-dressed persons are doing, celebrating in the streets in such a manner!"_

_"I already **told** you why," the other boy said tiredly, in complete exasperation. "Harry Potter killed the Dark Wizard Voldemort, and ended his reign of terror upon the Wizarding World."_

_Apollo waved his hand in a shooing motion towards the exasperated boy. "Oh shush, you must be imagining it. It's like those times where you swore you saw ghosts, or how one time you saw a little elf-like creature dressed in rags, or you heard someone yell Abracadabra and put on a green light show! Honestly, how you are my cousin, I shall never know."_

_"Yeah, I wonder how we're related all the time, too," Moses grumbled, rolling his eyes, before simply taking hold of Apollo's arm and dragging him away._

_"C'mon, your Mum's gonna worry if we don't get back soon. You can ask them about their robes some other time—Seems like they won't stop swarming the streets any time soon."_

_The shrimpy, twiggy Apollo tried wriggling out of his cousin's strong grip, to no avail._

_"Don't make me use my karate on you, dear cousin!" the boy whined in a nasally voice. "I'm a black belt, and very strong—I'd rather not break your arm!"_

_"Like you could do that," the other boy said under his breath, giving a snort. He didn't relent, dragging his cousin back to his home, the younger boy pouting and complaining annoyingly all the while._

_On that day, Apollo swore that he would find out about those quirky people— and he was going to find his own set of cool, colorful robes, too!_

0∞0∞0

_Little Lance Palmer, not even five years old, was wandering the streets. His little sister Gwen, about a year and a half of pure and utter adorableness, was cradled in his protective arms. _

_Today, he'd decided to go out and about the streets, to try and get money from sympathetic strangers. The orphanage could only give them so much—and Gwen really needed the baby formula, which cost a pretty pound to get. _

_With critical eyes and ears, Lancelot noted that many oddly dressed people swarmed the streets, cheering and jubilant. They were babbling loudly, celebrating about the death of some Yodelmore person, and of the Death Eaters. _

_They were rather insane-looking, but Lance found himself to not be so critical of them, especially when they showered the little orphans in golden coins and pound notes. Lance gave them the most elated, adorable thanks he could muster, making them coo and laugh happily._

_"You poor things don't have to worry about any big, bad people—and I'm sure such sweet little ones like you will get adopted," one particular dark-skinned, robed woman told them with a smile, as she stooped down to eye level. _

_"Thank you, miss!" Lance said with practiced cheerfulness, noting that the woman looked very maternal, and was teary-eyed._

_"Maybe some day you'll understand this odd celebration in the streets. I could only hope so—so you can realize how fortunate we all are to be here," she noted with a watery smile, giving a very soft, warm hug to the children._

_Lance was naturally curious, but he didn't particularly care about **why** there was such a celebration by weirdly-dressed people. He got lots of pity, lots of money, and even a very nice hug that reminded him of his late parents, before they'd been murdered by a loud group of men swathed in dark clothing._

0∞0∞0

_The tubby blonde boy noted something strange. There were people dressed in weirdo cult robes out and about, talking chipperly with one another, embracing random **normal** people who were just doing their business._

_For some reason, the blonde thought of the annoying boy, Neleus—his self-proclaimed 'best friend'. The dummy would probably chat happily about these odd people—he would even feel right at home with them, and go hug them, or something as equally stupid._

_Thinking about Neleus brought a pang to his usually cold heart. The Anderson family lived down the street, and they'd been murdered a few months ago. Mrs. Anderson had a gun, but her husband only had an odd stick in his hands post-mortem—that's what he'd heard from his gossiping, cold mother, at least._

_The Anderson couple had managed to drive off the group of murderers, even killed a few. It was hard to pin the death of two of the men in the group, since they got wounds that weren't gun shots, and it utterly baffled the police. During that week, everyone in the area had become more cautious, but no other incidents thankfully happened. _

_"And now there's freaks on the streets. What is this, a circus, or some nerdy club event?" the blonde boy said under his breath, snidely, as he sneered at the joyful people._

_He actually felt curious as to what was happening. The robed people were babbling about Moldyshorts and Death Eaters, whatever that was._

_His friend had warned him about a Voldymotes the day before the attack—which sounded a lot like this Moldyshorts or Vodeycoats that these weirdos were talking about._

_Nah, it was just a coincidence. _

_And soon enough, the fat little six-year-old forgot all about Voldymotes and robed freaks, when his mother shrieked for him to look after his baby brother Parry._

0∞0∞0

_"Gosh, Lucilla—Look at how **weird** those people are dressed!" the bright-eyed girl told her best friend in hushed awe, talking behind her hand. _

_The two eleven-year-old girls were sitting on a park bench, watching robed figures laugh and talk loudly, going around hugging random passerby. _

_"I **know**," the other girl answered. "Tully, do you think it's a new fashion trend or something?"_

_"I dunno," Tully answered, looking thoughtful. "I mean, if it was, I wouldn't mind much—maybe just making those robes shorter, and better-fitting. It doesn't seem very flattering on figures. But they've got really cool patterns and colors!"_

_"Yeah, some of them seem to even **move**!" the other girl said enthusiastically. "It's kinda like watching the telly!"_

_Tully squealed. "Ooooh, I **love** the telly! But those robes are probably just using movement and light to make the patterns **look** like they're moving—my Uncle Vizion taught me that," the girl commented, puffing out her chest in pride when she talked of her uncle._

_"Ohmygosh, you're soooo lucky to have an uncle who's into fashion!" the other girl said enthusiastically. "Is he ever going to go back into it, after his hiatus?"_

_"Yeah, I think so. He mentioned that some guy that was stopping him from doing anything was dead. Voldei More, or something like that?" Tully answered, tapping her chin and furrowing her brow. _

_"Voldei More? First I've ever heard of him," her friend tittered._

_"He was apparently a really mean guy that hated everyone that wasn't 'pure' or something—some type of classist that hated anyone who wasn't super-rich or something?" Tully tried to explain, with her very limited knowledge of the subject. "Anyways—he's dead, and my Uncle Vizion can go back into fashion here again!"_

_"Brilliant!" her friend exclaimed, clapping happily. "Ooh, ooh—maybe these people are celebrating because this bad Voldei More guy is dead!"_

_Tully laughed. "I kinda doubt it. What would be the chance?"_

_"Hmmmmm, you're right," Lucilla answered after a moment, laughing as well. "Still, maybe we should ask these people milling about, about where they got their robes…?"_

_The girls kept talking and laughing, their joy resonating with the other ecstatic people around them. _

_Tully couldn't help but note that those oddly dressed people kept speaking of a "You-Know-Who" and "Voldemort" being dead, and how apparently everyone was safe now. _

_And she couldn't help but agree—she felt very safe, surrounded by them._

∞U∞T∞O∞P∞I∞A∞

However, despite everything—the hardships, the pain, the fear, the hope, the bloodshed, the battle, the death, the grief—it was worth it. And everyone learned something from this, something important, something vital…

From this, a new utopia would form.

It may not be apparent, and it may be a slow, arduous process. But it was a truth, for this bright new Golden Age to come. For the new generation, and for the new Wizarding World.

0∞0∞0

_"This new generation—this new Age of the Wizarding World—will be **incredible**," Wiley Corr breathed, standing calmly amidst the chaos and ruin surrounding him._

_"Corr—what in blazes name are ye doing, just standin' there like a useless lump! We need ta organize everyone as quickly as possible, ta get some order upon the place!" his fellow Ministry worker, Thimblelina Paylor, snapped at him._

_"Oh, hush, love. The blatant breaking of the Statute has happened plenty of times before—the Muggles still believe Magic to be that of myth or children's stories. Not to mention that the Ministry has been in disarray in previous years, as well. We'll get things sorted out—just give it time," the brunette man said calmly, stroking his beard as he stared blankly in the distance._

_"Well, Corr, ye're not a newly-appointed head of a department, so I don't reckon ye understand what exactly is goin' on—but we need **everyone** ta do the job of at least ten, so get yer arse into gear!" she told him, showing her fiery temper. Her Irish accent was leaking into her speech heavily, from her irritation._

_"Oh, don't worry, love—I will," the man stated, pushing his thick frames up on his face. "But everything needs time, I assure you. **Especially** when we are supposed to build a brilliant new utopia," he added, as he handed a cup of prepared coffee to Thimble, just how she liked it—black, two sugar._

_ She took the cup of caffeine gratefully._

_"Stop gettin' philosophical on me, ya big prat," she snorted, less stressed and angry, from the kind gesture of her favorite mad genius. "Five more minutes, and I want yer brain out and about, helpin' us with the situation, that clear?"_

_"Crystal," he replied with a grin, and she rolled her eyes affectionately at him._

_"We've got a lot'a work ahead of us…" she noted morosely, as she took a shot of her coffee._

_"But it will all be worth it," Wiley stated, as he closed his eyes, imagining the new future after the rebuilding efforts. "We'll rise from the ashes, like a phoenix. And we **will** make the future an age of Gold."_

∞U∞T∞O∞P∞I∞A∞

* * *

><p>Extra notes:<p>

-This prologue was about 8,7000 words long, altogether, excluding the Author's Note.

-Wiley and Thimblelina, among a mix of OCs and canon characters, are going to help run the new Ministry in the future. We won't see these important Ministry workers often in this story, until much later, but they're still there.


	3. Ch 1,1: Rebuilding

**AN**: So I decided to get this next chapter up, which _starts with the appearances of actual canon characters_. Harry, after all the mentions he gets, finally appears!

And _McGonagall is going to have a large part in these coming chapters_, which **I** find exciting. I adore her.

The second-to-last section also heavily parallels the one found in Chapter 4 of From Utopia: The Final Hunger Games. Read it, if you haven't already. Also, I added in a stupid anime character in here, because I am a huge fucking nerd- guess who.

* * *

><p>∞U∞T∞O∞P∞I∞A∞<p>

Ch 1.1: Rebuilding

∞U∞T∞O∞P∞I∞A∞

It took quite a bit of time for things in the Wizarding World to even be **considered** stable. The months after May were a flurry of activity, mainly in the rebuilding efforts and reorganization of Magical Britain.

Many questions were on the forefront of people's minds.

_Are all the Death Eaters truly captured and punished? Will the Ministry ever pull itself together? What of the Muggleborns that fled during the Purging? Will Hogwarts be rebuilt? Will Hogwarts be in session this year? _

Everyone was tentative on the first question. Most **hoped** that the Death Eaters have been taken care of, but there were too many of them, and a whirlwind of trials that seemed never-ending.

A good portion of the Wizarding World had lost hope and respect for their government, so most scathingly thought that the British Ministry of Magic will never truly pull itself together, and recover the faith of their people.

However, with the quick and unanimous voting of the war hero and leader, Kingsley Shacklebolt, as the Minister of Magic… As well as the appointment of good witches and wizards—ones who weren't dark, who weren't corrupt—to be Department Heads…Well, that certainly regained hope from many. Not to mention that with Shacklebolt at the helm, the Ministry was purged of corruption and quickly organized, working quickly and efficiently to perform their duties.

In the case of the Muggleborns, many had to be found, since they were well hidden or already far away from Britain. Once they were told of the news, some were reluctant to go back—but many did, indeed, jump into returning to their homeland. They were given their homes, jobs, wand, money—their lives—back.

On the front of Hogwarts—well, it sustained quite a bit of damage. About a third of the castle was completely destroyed. The rebuilders had quite a bit of work on their hands—but there were many volunteers, people who wanted their home, their symbol of hope, to be built back and running to its full glory.

Minerva McGonagall was at the helm of the rebuilding of Hogwarts, as well as the remaining staff. Various war heroes also pitched in when they could—even Harry, Ron, and Hermoine, despite all the work they had in their hands when it came to the Death Eaters and the Ministry.

In general, people swarmed in droves towards the dilapidated castle, trying their best to do **something** useful, instead of just sitting around doing nothing. Many people truly loved the castle—even people like Narcissa Malfoy helped, much to many people's surprise.

1∞1∞1

_Claire Dillon stood in the Great Hall of Hogwarts, along with the other volunteers who wanted to help rebuild the school._

_Claire and her family had been in hiding when Voldemort took over, and the Ministry tried registering and purging the Muggleborns. When news got to her of the war's end—whilst she was in the Prachett Safe House—she quickly made her way to Hogsmeade. Now here she was, hoping to help pick up the pieces_

_She recognized a few people in the large room—either well-known war heroes, or some of her previous classmates. Many volunteers seemed to be around Harry Potter's age—perhaps friends or classmates of his. She didn't know them that well, but she found the sight of them to be normal, for these circumstances._

_She was surprised to see some somewhat dubious Purebloods that she __**swore**__ had allegiance to Voldemort in the Great Hall as well. People like Narcissa Malfoy, and some children of families like Parkinson, Nott, and Yaxley. _

_Oh well. She wasn't the type to make a fuss on that. Most were children—and shouldn't be judged based on the actions of their parents._

_Most in the room were people that she did not personally know, nor could place a name to. Some looked like foreigners—maybe French, Bulgarian, Irish, and Indian. She wasn't sure; she was awful at figuring nationalities, since she herself was British, but had dark skin._

_Minerva McGonagall was speaking, informing them of the damages, and organizing them all into groups based on things like talents, strength, and strategical places for maximum efficiency._

_Claire was placed in an oddly small group that would literally repair the damaged walls and ceilings of the castle, in the Western section. She herself was proficient at fixing and repairing charms, and also knew Healing in case parts of the castle collapsed and hurt anyone in the group._

_She stood next to a short blonde man—someone around her height, but who was older than her, by the sternness in his face. When the group left the Hall and traversed their way across the grounds, to the West, she soon realized __**why**__ this man was placed in this particular group._

_Taking chalk out of his pocket, he crouched down and started to quickly mark up an intricate circular pattern in front of a collapsed section of an outer wall. In a few seconds, he had a diagram, full of sigils. He placed his wand in the middle of the circle, facing north. Then he clapped his hands, and slammed them on two points that seemed to be corners of an inner triangle._

_Energy crackled through the air, magic potent and vibrating. Magical energy—manifesting in a bright light—burst out of the seal on the ground. Then, the light enveloped the part of the broken wall, as well as some of the surrounding rubble._

_When the light faded, in front of them stood a perfectly solid-looking wall, where the hole had previously been. Everyone in the small group gaped at the feat, whilst the man who did the task seemed to closely scrutinize said wall, tapping its surface and waving his wand in patterns over it._

_"Just needs varding and reinforcing spells," he stated._

_The rest of the group was deadly silent, until Claire squeaked out, "You're an Alchemist?!"_

_To her, that cemented the blonde man as a foreigner. Alchemy was a rare elective in Hogwarts, only allowed for 6__th__ and 7__th__ years who had a recommendation from their Head of House. It was also deemed a very hard elective, to top it off._

_The man shrugged. "Hogvarts needs help, so here I am. That's all you need to know, really."_

_The small group stayed silent, but nodded, letting the issue go._

_No matter who anyone was, __**everyone**__ was welcome in helping rebuild. It didn't matter your nationality, your blood status, or your family—as long as you wanted to help, you could._

∞U∞T∞O∞P∞I∞A∞

During the months of rebuilding, it was a hectic and interesting time for many families, especially the children.

Spurred with childish youth, the unfortunate side-affects of the war, or the need to adapt to their new lives, many children across Britain and Scotland were quite busy.

1∞1∞1

Little Circe Salene stared sadly out of her window, into the dark, curtained window of her neighbor.

In the days before things got dark and scary, they would throw their windows open, and talk to each other happily. Or they'd throw a cup-and-string over into each other's window, and talk till it got dark, and it was bedtime.

But after the Battle, where her daddy came back, but Locce's daddy and brother didn't… Where her parents had to teach her what death and dying meant, and that Mister Pierce and Pan were **dead**, and could never come back… Locce had shut himself in his room.

Tears slid down her round face at this thought. Mr. Palenciste was quiet, but always really nice and brave. And Pan…Pan was like the older brother she never had. He wasn't like other big kids, either—he was always happy, kind, and ready to play with his little brother and neighbor.

But her sadness couldn't even **compare** to Locce's, or Mrs. Palenciste's. She lost two neighbors—while **they** lost a father and brother, and a husband and son.

Circe couldn't stop the tears from flowing, however. No matter how many times she told herself that her sadness couldn't compare to theirs, she couldn't stop being so **sad**.

She wish she could help Locce. But every time she tried getting him to open his window, or open his bedroom door, he wouldn't answer. He was completely shutting her out, wallowing in misery, keeping his pain to himself.

"_They just need time_," her daddy had told her tiredly. "_We've just got to be there for them, honey, and support them._"

The Salenes were doing a good job of supporting the heartbroken Mrs. Palenciste—who often went to her mummy to cry on—but none of them were able to get through to Locce. None of them were able to support them.

And it broke her heart.

Circe clutched her can-phone to her chest, as if she was hugging Locce himself.

She **really** hoped that time would help Locce, even if it was just in getting him outside of his room. Once he did that, then she could definitely help him. As long as he didn't keep shutting everything out…

1∞1∞1

Duke was surprised when the co-owner of the restaurant—Hera Sinclair, a very kind, portly woman—took aside the Travers family for an important talk.

"I'm sorry, dears, but something's come up. My old school burned down in some awful attack of sorts, and I've decided to go travel there to help in the rebuilding efforts. I'll be providing lunches for all the volunteers," she informed them, somewhat somber despite her usual cheery disposition.

"How awful!" the boy's mother exclaimed, hand over her mouth.

"Do you need us to help in any way?" asked his father—the other co-owner of the restaurant—quickly. "I'd be happy to get a team to go with you, or at least help prepare some of the lunches…?"

"Oh, no, no—I'll be fine, doing it myself," the soft woman said, a smile on her face once more. "The school's cooks will help me, and I just wouldn't feel right if I took time and manpower out of the restaurant, when it's currently so busy."

"You sure you don't need help…?" Duke piped up, worried.

He had absolute faith in Mrs. Sinclair—she was able to whip up just about anything like _magic_. She often got done more on her own, down in her barred side-kitchenette, than the entire team of chefs could **combined**.

But Duke still couldn't help but worry. It sounded like there'd be a lot of volunteers, and a lot of helping hands needed to feed them. He didn't want her to overwork herself—she was like an aunt to him.

Mrs. Sinclair put her hands on her knees, lowering herself more to the little boy's height. "How about you help me whip up a batch of chocolate chip cookies to take with me…? I'm sure my old schoolmates will love them," she offered kindly, giggling when Duke brightened and gave a little bounce.

"Will do, Mrs. Sinclair!" Duke exclaimed, and his father ruffled his hair.

"That's my boy—always the hardworking little chef," the man said fondly. "Now, Hera… I hope things go well for you and your school. I'll make sure to be on top of everything here, so just focus on helping them out, you hear?"

Mrs. Sinclair nodded. "That's just what I was about to suggest, Saxon—I have faith that you'll run the restaurant fine on your own." She then looked down at her watch.

"Alright, Duke—let's go make those cookies! After they're cooled and in a tin, I'll be leaving," the chubby woman said, childish excitement injected in her voice for the blonde boy.

"Yes, Ma'am!" Duke said resolutely, smiling happily, as he quickly skittered to wash his hands and start preparing the dough.

"Mrs. Sinclair, can I have some cookies…?" asked the youngest Traver child—a girl around five years old.

"You and Duke can have just a few. Don't tell your parents," the woman said with a mock whisper and a wink, whilst Mr. and Mrs. Travers tried not to laugh.

The Travers would miss Hera Sinclair—but all would be fine, when she came back from her trip of rebuilding her old school.

1∞1∞1

The first week after Zenovia returned from Hogwarts was a week full of the Angelis sisters bonding.

They had never really gotten along before, always seemingly competing for their parent's approval. However, Eugenia was incredibly relieved that her sister survived. When the first year Ravenclaw had stepped into her room to rest, Eugenia was there to pounce on her, tears streaming down her face.

Both knew that this bonding wouldn't last forever. Eugenia was always jealous of her older sister getting so much attention and approval from their parents, and Zenovia always thought her sister a whiny little brat.

But they both hugged and chatted happily with one another, their sisterly bond the strongest it had ever been.

1∞1∞1

Elara dreamily looked around her small, cramped, room. She was sharing it with her brother, and another pair of siblings—twin boys, it seemed like—in the Magical orphanage.

"Hmmm…This isn't such a bad place to live in for a few years…" the girl noted lightly, as she fluffed her stiff, thin pillow.

"What do you mean, sis?" her older brother asked, brow furrowed in concern.

"Oh, only that since a war just happened, there's a lot of orphans…We'd all be competing to get adopted, so it'll take a while for all of us to ever get new homes," the blonde ditz noted calmly and logically. The others in the room simply gaped at her, barely believing the wise words that had flowed from her mouth.

"But I don't mind—You can adopt me when you're old enough, Pierce. Three or four years left, right…?" the girl asked her brother, her legs kicking languidly as they hung off the side of her small bed.

"Three," her brother corrected, voice taut. "Seventeen is when you're an adult in the Magical world."

"Three years isn't **that** long," Elara commented serenely. "See? Things will work out. And when we go to Hogwarts, we'll be boarding there most of the year, anyways…"

"How do **you** know you're going to Hogwarts? Or that Hogwarts will **ever** open?" one of the other boys asked suddenly, rather harshly.

"Oh, isn't it obvious…? People who cannot do much during this time, stuck without a way to help the Wizarding World to right itself, will want to volunteer to help rebuild **something**. Hogwarts will be return, it's doors open to student, in the near future. You'll see…" Elara stated, voice oddly throaty and detached, gaze unfocused.

"You didn't answer the first question," the previous boy's sibling chipped in.

Pierce answered for her. "When Professor McGonagall came to my house to tell my family about me being a Wizard, they told us that Muggleborn siblings usually end up being Magical. And Elara's done accidental magic before."

The twins looked at one another, before shrugging. "Fine," they both stated, seemingly believing the older boy.

Before any more conversation could be had, Elara slumped over in her bed, suddenly having fallen asleep.

1∞1∞1

_Anita Palenciste planned her husband and elder son's joint funerals. One Muggle one, so that their non-magical family, friends, and neighbors could attend. One Magical one, so that they could be honored for having fought, and died, in the Battle of Hogwarts._

_The Salenes were with her every step of the way. From the planning, to the invitations, to the funerals themselves. They were invaluable to Anita, whilst she felt so lost and alone. _

_She felt like she truly had no one else left—Locce had shut himself off from the entire world, locked up in his room to brood. No amount of pleading from her could get him to leave, and even little Circe came by to try coaxing him out of his room. _

_The Salenes were the only people close to her that she could confide in, the only magical folk she actually knew._

The day of the funerals came. Anita Palenciste was dressed in all black, an utter mess, and she couldn't stop crying. Thankfully, Locce left his room to attend them—the only time she'd seen him out of his room—and allowed her to clutch him, to share their grief.

The Muggle funeral came first, in a very early hour. She wanted this out of the way as quickly as possible. Not to mention, that she had been informed by Homer Salene that it was a tradition for Magical funerals to start at mid-day, and last until later hours.

In the normal funeral, she gave the excuse of Pierce and Pan having died in a large car crash, whilst they had taxi'd to the next city over. It was a good cover-up, as there was an actual large car crash around that time and area.

Throughout the entire thing, she sobbed. Homer and Carrie Salene had to do most of the talking, whilst she was overwhelmed with grief. She clung to her tiny son, who didn't say an entire word throughout the funeral, despite having been called forwards to say a few words about his father and brother.

Locce simply wizened through it in silence, like he did most issues. The tears wouldn't stop falling from his face, but his face was taut with effort. He looked much more composed than his mother, from the outside; but on the inside, he was breaking.

**That** funeral ended with the caskets staying aboveground. They weren't buried, like the usual tradition—but many of the funeral goers were wise to not bring up the oddity.

In the Magical funeral, Anita watched as robed figures trickled in. Schoolmates of Pan's, a large portion of Hufflepuff House, colleagues of Pierce, employees of his company, fellow businessmen that Pierce had allied with, fellow fighters during the Battle…

Most had their families accompanying them, to also pay respects. The crowd of people that came was overwhelming, and incredibly large, just like how she'd been warned. Her tiny son was standing rigidly, obviously disliking how large the mass of people was, and attached himself firmly to her side.

Anita wasn't sure which funeral was worse. The one where she had to fake Pierce and Pan's cause of death, which was very modest, and felt impersonal? Or the one where everyone actually **knew** how they died, with an overwhelmingly large turnout, where she knew almost no one among the sea of dark robes?

Homer did most of the talking and introduction, which spurred her to sob uncontrollably once more. She wobbled her way to the podium, Locce still clinging to her side, helped by Carrie. Homer cast a spell on her to make her voice carry among the funeral.

Anita Palenciste spoke of how wonderful and brave they were, words barely discernible through her tears. She spoke of how much she loved them dearly.

She left unspoken that she despised that they died, in a completely different world that she did not understand. She simply sobbed, and stepped away, allowing others to come up and voice their sentiments, their respects, and their condolences.

It blurred together. It also lasted what felt like an eternity—they weren't kidding, when they told her that Magical funerals were lengthy.

At least a third of the crowd stepped forwards to speak words about the deceased men. The line of the procession to the caskets also took at least two hours to finish—every single person going forwards to at least touch the polished wood of the caskets, even the children who were simply there because of their parents having been an employee or a colleague of Pierce.

When the caskets were closed, every person with a wand raised it, casting a spell to shower the area in a soft glow. Locce couldn't help but think that it was hauntingly beautiful, as he was pressed against his grief-stricken mother's bosom, one of his hands being clutched by Circe.

Even after the official end of the funeral, people still stayed, milling about. His mother was off in a corner, crying into Mrs. Salene, who was trying to sooth her. Locce simply stared blankly at the caskets, tears still silently sliding down his dark, brooding face.

Most didn't think of approaching him. Most people felt it awkward, or felt too detached to try. Locce was about seven, so many guessed that he didn't know any of them. If they had met, perchance, in the past—well, the boy could have easily forgotten them.

Only Circe approached him. Her face was wet with tears, since she had stopped trying to dry her face after the first eight or so times.

She threaded her hand in his, squeezing tightly. She wasn't even six yet, so her hands were smaller than even his.

"Locce…Please let me help," she whispered, voice quivering, as she stared at his profile. "You're my best friend, and I miss you. Don't shut me and your mummy out. Please…"

The dark-skinned boy said nothing. The two children simply stood there somberly, staring at the caskets.

"Later," Locce rasped, after fifteen full minutes of staring at the wooden structures that held his dead father and brother, hand in hers.

"Okay. Later," Circe said tiredly, as she rubbed a fist against her face. "But I won't leave you alone, **ever**, 'kay?"

"'Kay," he murmured, barely louder than a whisper. The girl still heard him, and smiled slightly despite how desolate she felt.

"We're gonna be okay. Just needs time," she stated, echoing her father's words from a few days ago.

Both internally hoped that she was right.

1∞1∞1

Three young girls—Judith, Gliss, and Daphne—along with their families, had to prepare for their father's trials.

All of their fathers were Death Eaters, had taken the Dark Mark, were high-ranking followers of Voldemort, and had been captured alive after the Battle of Hogwarts.

Lists of the captured—and dead— Death Eaters had already hit the Daily Prophet just two days after the Battle. Many people avoided the families of these Death Eaters like the plague—only the closest family or friends were there for them, at these times.

For little Gliss and the Feenix family, they had the Weiger family of two—close friends of the family—there to support them during this time. Gliss clung to her best friend Chip Weiger as much as she clung to her own mother.

For Judith and the House of Batiatus, no other family dared try comforting them. No one wanted to appear to be Death Eater sympathizers, and the Batiatus were considered a minor Pureblood family in Britain from their foreign and intimidating roots.

The Batiatus only had each other—and their loyal House Elfs. Considering that the House of Batiatus always ran a House Elf business, the support of their Elfs was no surprise.

Daphne and her mother were rather calm-faced and logical. Both became detached from Daures, the man they'd previous considered a father and husband. The man who had become the Head Editor of the Daily Prophet during the fall of the Ministry, who hated Muggles and Muggleborns despite his status as Half-blood, who fanatically followed Voldemort and his ideals…

Her mother quickly proved her and Daphne's innocence with the fact that she fed the side of the Light—specifically to Kingsley Shacklebolt, when he was in the Order of the Phoenix— important Death Eater plans and information. The woman's actions had saved countless people's lives.

So during **that** particular trial, of the Head Editor of the Daily Prophet, Shacklebolt quickly gave Daphne and her mother amenity. The two women gained a lot of sympathy and support for this fact, as well as gaining a warm connection to the war hero.

For something you gain, you lose another. The two lost the connection they had with Daures. The man was yelling, spiting with rage, when his wife testified against him, cementing his lifelong sentence in Azkaban.

Despite all these small differences between these families, however, one thing still rang true: they were still broken and hurting, and all their patriarchs would be kept in Azkaban with a lifelong sentence. Their families weren't as fortunate as the Malfoys, who had Harry Potter personally attending their trials and vouching for them.

1∞1∞1

_The man sat in his dank holding cell, sobbing, as he pled to his guard for mercy._

_"Please, let me see my family! I did it all for them—__**everything**__ was for them to be safe!" he cried to the man outside his cell. "Please, sir, let me see my family before my trial!"_

_"I'm afraid I can't," Auror Kim said dully, as he tried to bury his emotions under a professional mask. "All the trials for the Death Eaters are held as quickly as possible, after one another, and it's unlikely that there'd be time left for such a visit."_

_"Please…Please—you look like a family man, Auror! Let me… Let me see them," Darius Feenix said pitifully, prostrating himself, praying for one shred of kindness._

_"I am, Feenix. But I can't do that for you," the guard said, a small amount of pity leaking in his voice. "If you manage to go free, you have the chance to do so. If you aren't…There's visiting hours during incarceration."_

_This only made the prisoner sob harder, and the guard cringed, gritting his teeth tighter. _

_An inner war was being held in Auror Kim. He was, in fact, a family man. Not to mention that this man he was guarding was incredibly pitiful, and he himself understood the feeling of doing whatever possible for the sake of one's family._

_However, this man was a commander in the Death Eaters, one of Voldemort's highest-ranked and closest. His actions were inexcusable, no matter if he did so for his family. He could have tried to staunch his rise through the ranks—so that both his family would be safe, but he wouldn't have to do as many horrible deeds. But no, Darius Feenix was like Lucius Malfoy—doing anything and everything, so that the Dark Wizard would not punish his family._

_Darius was at least lucky to have not gotten his family in trouble with Voldemort. It showed that he did his job too well. And now the Feenix patriarch would have to go to prison for life, for doing so._

1∞1∞1

_The ten-year-old girl quivered, her hand clenching her equally shaken mother's tightly. Both stepped into the courtroom at the same time. Behind them came in the Weigers, who held onto her little brothers._

_The group of six went to sit on one of the stands. The Defendant's side, Gliss repeated in her mind. The side where the lawyer that could help Papa was sitting at._

_All the judges look tired. Mama had told her that so far, the Ministry had a lot of trials each day. They probably had just finished one, before they entered the room._

_Suddenly, a creak cut through the air. An imposing side-door opened, and her Papa entered, bound and being led by an Asian man in Auror robes._

_"Papa!" the girl shrieked, not able to hold herself from speaking. Her heart rose when she was finally able to see her Papa, even if he looked disheveled and miserable._

_Darius Feenix's eyes brightened, as his eyes landed on the Defendant's Stand. There was his family, sitting safe and sound—along with Roulay and her boy. _

_"Baba?" little Gavin Feenix warbled, whilst nestled in his blanket._

_"Yes, that's your Papa," Chip told the baby in a low voice. Despite his precaution, the exchange passed through the entire courtroom, the father hearing it._

_Tears sprung to the previously desolate man's eyes, as he gave a watery smile, despite being roughly shoved to the middle of the room. He was set in the chair in the middle of the dais, chains and restraints springing up to keep him in place._

_"Baba!" Gavin echoed, with his four-year old brother exclaiming "Papa!". _

_"Let the trial of one Darius Helius Feenix commence," boomed the voice of the judge, whilst a man scribbled furiously to his left, taking minutes of the trial._

_"Darius Helius Feenix, you are here—held in the custody, and under the jurisdiction of the court—for the transgressions as follows: _

_Swearing allegiance to the Dark Wizard, Lord Voldemort. Being a Death Eater, a close follower of Lord Voldemort. Holding the Dark Mark, given by Lord Voldemort to his closest and most loyal. Having fought against the resistance, during the Battle of Hogwarts. Being captured in Death Eater robes, after the end of the Battle of Hogwarts. Commanding a unit of Lord Voldemort's forces. Participating in numerous destructive runs across Britain, along with fellow Death Eaters. And various charges of murder and torture against a number of Muggles and Muggleborns, under the direction of Lord Voldemort."_

_Gliss's breath constricted with every charge against her Papa. That was such a long list—her Papa __**couldn't**__ have done all that, he just couldn't…!_

_"Please, I didn't want to!" Darius pleaded, restrained in place by his bindings. "He said he would kill my family, if I didn't join him! I would have __**never**__ done such atrocious things—"_

_A gavel banged loudly. "Order! Darius Helius Feenix, were you, or were you not, a part of these transgressions?"_

_The convicted man was shivering. "He was going to torture and kill us—I had to save my family! He Crucio'd me, I didn't have any other choice!"_

_The little girl's mind went blank. The trial proceeded, as if muted. She couldn't comprehend what was happening. It was as if someone else was watching it happen, using her body. She didn't feel like she was even functioning._

_At some point, her mother went up to the stands to testify. Then Mrs. Weiger._

_"Gliss? Gliss?" came a voice, fading in and out of her ears._

_"Gliss, you have to go up there. It's time for you to testify," her best friend hissed in her ear, as he shook her arm._

_The black-haired girl blinked. Her senses came back slowly._

_"You __**can't**__ make Gliss do this, sir—she's only a child!" her mother crowed._

_"Is Gliss Feenix not the eldest of your children, Mrs. Adriel Feenix?" the judge asked in his raspy voice, giving a pointed stare at the hysterical woman._

_"Yes, but—"_

_"Gliss Feenix is aged ten—next year, she will gain her wand and enter her Magical education, I presume?"_

_"Yes," the girl spoke up, standing up slowly._

_"Gliss—Gliss, no!" her mother hissed, gripping her shoulder tightly._

_The girl wormed her way out of her mother's grip, weaving her way out of the stands, to stand up and testify her father's innocence._

_She was still in a daze. She tried answering the questions posed to her, but everything felt ethereal._

_She suddenly blinked, having found that she was gently being led back to her seat, by the man who was writing next to the judge earlier. The man rushed back to his seat, quill poised once more, before she could say a word._

_"Now, will each side produce their findings and material evidence…?"_

_Gliss watched as her father's Death Eater mask, Death Eater robes, wand, and a few odd dark artifacts that she had no idea he possessed, were displayed to the court. _

_"Did you know what you were doing, when you committed these crimes, Mr. Feenix?" the opposing lawyer asked._

_"I didn't want to—didn't have a choice…"_

_"That's not what I asked, Mr. Feenix. I asked you if you knew what you were doing. As in, the Dark Wizard was not physically controlling you, as you slaughtered those Muggles, fought on his side during the Battle, and tortured those Muggleborns…?"_

_"He made me—H-He'd kill them if I didn't. I had to—"_

_"It seems like Mr. Darius Helius Feenix was conscious of his actions, and did them in full health of mind. He was not Imperiused—he has not given an explanation, apart from being forced to do so, because of his family's impending doom being held above him. He did all these transgressions, with knowledge of his actions."_

_"No!" Adriel Feenix shrieked, sobbing loudly._

_The judge banged his gavel once more. "That is enough! We will now come to a decision. With these facts in mind, how many in this jury believe Darius Helius Feenix to be guilty?"_

_Tears blurred Gliss's eyes, as she watched the majority of the jury raise their hands and answer, "Aye."_

_"It seems that it is unanimous. Darius Helius Feenix, you are hereby found guilty for…"_

_Gliss couldn't breathe. She felt like the world was crashing in around her, like her insides were being pulled through a meat grinder. She belatedly realized that she was hyperventilating, and that Chip was trying to calm her down._

_"Breathe, Gliss! In, out, in out—C'mon, calm down, calm down. Breathe…Breathe…" the boy pleaded, holding onto her shoulders, as he breathed in a rhythm for her to follow. "In…Out…In…Out…There you go."_

_Gliss managed to get her breath under control, but she felt dizzy and disoriented. _

_She could hear her father yelling in anguish, could hear her mother sobbing hysterically, could hear Gavin wail from all the negativity and noise surrounding him. She could feel that her hand was gripping something, could feel that it was gripping back, could feel the warmth of Chip's hand in herms, could feel the crushing grip around her as mother hugged her and sobbed into her hair._

_Guilty, guilty, guilty… The word echoed in her head._

_Her Papa was guilty. He did all those bad things, and now he was going to Azkaban._

_For life, for life, for life…The two words filtered, puncturing holes in her thoughts._

_That's right—the judge had sentenced her Papa to be incarcerated for life…He'll never be able to get out…Never…_

1∞1∞1

The gathering was half a party, and half a support group, Cicely noted.

Cicely's father, Mr. Tate, was ecstatic on rising through the ranks of the Daily Prophet so quickly. The Ministry was going through a combing and cleansing, spearheaded by the newly appointed Minister Kinglsey Shacklebolt.

Mr. Tate passed his review and assessment with flying colors, one of the few unbiased, Muggle-friendly journalists left. He was appointed one of the head Columnists, a large leap from his low position before.

Her mother, however, was still weeping and paranoid. Weeping in relief of having never had to fought for He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, of her allegiance having never gotten out, and never having punished for her panicked following of the Dark Wizard. Paranoid and bitter, not wanting her previous foolish actions to leak out to the public and bring shame and trouble upon the Tates.

Mrs. Trais and Mrs. Bissette—her friends Lou and Navaeh's respective mothers—were comforting the still-hysterical Mrs. Tate. Her father was trying to keep as much attention on himself, to give his wife some privacy.

"Why so gloomy, Ci?" Lou asked the girl suddenly, draping an arm around her shoulder.

"Are you sad zat you're ze youngest of the trio again?" Navaeh asked lightly, draping an arm around Cicely's other shoulder.

The youngest girl beamed at her friends. "No, not at all—I'm relieved that you've both returned, even if it's only for a visit."

The Trais and Bissette families had fled Britain after the death of Albus Dumbledore, to Britain's tentative allies, France. Lou and Navaeh had just came back from attending their first year at Beauxbatons School of Magic, cutting out of the last few weeks to go back and visit Britain and see if their friends were okay.

"Sorry zat we have to ditch you again…" Lou said, suddenly not as bright as she was before.

"Oh, it's fine—I'm sure it's better to go to Beauxbatons than Hogwarts, with, um…Well, you know…" the little girl murmured, deflating slightly. If Hogwarts hadn't sustained such damage, she would be in her First Year, this coming September.

"Hey, hey—Zat's no way to talk!" Navaeh suddenly interjected. "I'm sure zat you'll be a little firstie at Hogwarts in a few months," she said, tapping the smaller girl on the nose.

The girl wrinkled said nose. "Y-You're doing it again…"

"Doing what?" Navaeh questioned, smirking,

"Acting like I-I'm your little sister," the ringlet-haired girl murmured, squirming in her friend's tightened grip.

"Awwwww—Don't get your knickers in a twist, Cici. You've always been my adorable brat sister," the girl said brightly, laughing, whilst Lou joined along.

Cicely relaxed, joining in the merriment as well, despite her pride being bruised.

She couldn't stay mad at her best friends. Especially since they'd have to part ways, soon enough…

1∞1∞1

It was July 5th, and little Horatia was wriggling in place, waiting for her Uncle Jonas to give her her presents.

It was a somewhat bleak birthday. Her Daddy and Uncle weren't here, having died a few months ago, and her Mummy didn't want any of her cousins to come celebrate with her. She promised that they could come next year, just not **this** year—not so quickly after the end of the war, where everyone was watching the Death Eaters and their families so closely.

The girl would have liked if her cousins Pansy and Melody were with her, at least. But Mummy said she wouldn't get any of her amazing presents if they came, and her cousins were kinda poor now anyways…

"Can I open them now?" the newly turned seven-year-old girl asked impatiently.

Her Uncle—and future Daddy, if her Mummy had any say in it—chuckled. "Go ahead, Tia."

"Yaaaaay!" the girl cheered, as she ravenously ripped the decorated parcels open.

She got a large purple owl plush doll, a pair of trendy dragon hide boots, and a pair of purple-tinted sunglasses.

"Thanks, Daddy!" the girl chirped, as she hugged the owl cutely.

The man's smile froze in place, as he stared wide-eyed at his niece, having barely believed his ears.

"Oh…Oh, she just," his sister-in-law choked out, fanning her face, her eyes glistening with tears. "Oh, Jonas, she's just missed her poor Daddy so much…And you've been there for us, during these harsh times…" she said in a low voice, brimming with emotion, as she clutched a hand on his arm.

The birthday girl tuned out her Mummy, leaving the woman to her devices. She giggled when she put on her sunglasses, in a knowing way.

Her Mummy was working her charm. And soon enough, she'd get a new Daddy to shower her in such wonderful gifts!

Honestly, Daddy Jonas was always better at picking out gifts than her other Daddy…

Mrs. Vici was softening and buttering up her target with relative ease. The longest she would go husbandless would be perhaps two years. Jonas always **did** have a soft spot for her little girl…

1∞1∞1

The House of Vaesley became known as a proper Pureblood House very quickly, shooting to the top of society in record time.

Cyrus Vaesley's role in helping the side of the Light quickly spread throughout the Wizarding World, and he was known as a war hero, despite never dueling the Death Eaters. To the Death Eaters and its sympathizers, the Vaesleys were all blood traitors, almost as bad as the Weasleys.

The Vaesley's Potion business became known as the top potions business in Britain and its neighbors, because of Cyrus. They got orders from places as far as Romania, and were always brewing and distributing their products.

Rumors flew of Cyrus Vaesley being given a high-ranking position in the Ministry, or getting an Order of Merlin First Class for having been the owner of one of the few uncorrupt businesses during Voldemort's iron rule.

The Vaesleys couldn't be happier at this turn of events. Young Casca, especially. His chances of becoming Minister of Magic in the future had skyrocketed, all because of his brilliant father.

The boy was torn between wanting to inherit the family potions business, making his old man proud—or becoming Minister, and helping spread and maintaining equality throughout the Wiarding World.

Yes, the Vaesleys were certainly living the life, right now…

1∞1∞1

"Oi, Mam…I think I should go into actin'," the eight-year-old said languidly, as he fiddled with his hair.

"Wha…?" asked Elissa Halliday blankly, before furrowing her brows at her son. "What are ye talking about, Perrin?"

The boy sighed dramatically, stopping his minor quest on finding the most attractive shade of green for his hair today. "I **mean**—Me face has already been plastered on lotsa ads in the Wizarding World, yeah?"

"Yes…" said the woman irately.

"So, since You-Know-Who is outta the picture—why not try 'n put me gorgeous face in the Muggle world?" Perrin queried. "**Expand** my expertise, 'n all tha'. It'll be a great business investment, I tell ye."

The woman looked contemplative, the irritation bleeding out of her face.

"I can understand ye wanting ta do advertisements in the Muggle world. It would be smart if ye did, lad. However…" here, the woman paused, narrowing her eyes. "Why **acting**, of all things…?"

The boy groaned theatrically, his hair turning peridot green in irritation. "Mam, actin's **interesting**, 'n it isn't **boring**. Plus, I heard tha' Muggle actors get paid quite the pretty pound, if they're good enough…"

"Hmmmm," his mother hummed, tapping her chin. "How about we get ye to audition for a few things? If ye don't make it, then ye'll just stick to advertisements."

The boy's hair turned into a bright, pleased turquoise. "Deal! Ye run a hard bargain, Mam."

"O' course, son," Elissa flipped her long blonde hair. "Now, kip up! We're goin' out, 'n hunting down some actin' positions for ye. If this works, then we can surprise yer father before he comes home from work!"

1∞1∞1

"Daphne, I have good news," her mother said when she entered the room, a small smile on her face.

"What is it?" the girl asked cautiously, eying her mother over her dark glasses.

"I managed to rid us of your father's name, getting it changed to my maiden name. We are now Beaumont women, honey," the newly minted Mrs. Beaumont said, preening with pride.

Daphne Beaumont stilled, mouth agape, in shock.

"How did you even manage that?" she asked quickly, curious despite the pang in her heart. With her father in Azkaban for life, his last name was the biggest thing that linked her to him. Even if she and her mother weren't particularly close to him, the fact she no longer had that connection made her feel…odd.

"Remember how we were praised by Kingsley Shacklebolt, from my heroic role of passing information to him?" the woman started. "Well, I pled my case to him, for the name change. And since he owes me a bit of a favor…"

"And him being the Minister of Magic, it wouldn't be any trouble for him to get it done," Daphne ended, breathing in awe.

"Exactly," Mrs. Beaumont said, straightening, her grin widening. "We're now home-free, honey—or, at least, as close as we can be."

Daphne gave her mother a half-smile, showing a bit of her shark teeth, before her face fell into that of contemplation.

"But…Wouldn't this have been more trouble than needed, if you get married in the future…?" the girl murmured.

Her mother's smile faded, as the realization struck her. She face-palmed, giving a small groan.

"Ohhhh, why didn't **I** think of that?" she moaned sadly, before giving a large sigh. "Oh well. If I do, I'll just insist on us keeping the Beaumont name."

Daphne gave a snort, the troubles of her father's imprisonment leaving her mind, as she dealt with the rare, stupid mistake her mother made.

1∞1∞1

The good thing from this war was **definitely** the fact that the Reivans were now at the top of the Pureblood totem pole. They got invited to **all** the good parties—and if there was one thing Viatrix had always **loved**, it was a good party.

The House of Reivan managed to jump back into recognition, after the fall of so many previously prominent Houses. The Reivans had faded into obscurity for centuries, not considered a **true** Pureblood House. This was because the Reivan family tree is littered by Halfbloods intermarrying into the House, as well as the rare Muggleborn.

But with so many other Houses in shambles, the Reivans were now prominent once more on the British Wizarding World scene. It helped that both her parents held a large network, and were very successful businesspeople. The Reivan's obscurity helped them fly under You-Know-Who's radar, and now they were untouched, rich, and strong.

"But if we're all so rich, why do the snacks taste so **awful**?" the eleven-year-old grumbled under her breath, as she made a face. She wiped her mouth—specifically, her tongue—with a napkin. She promptly threw it away in the convenient rubbish bin that was located next to the snack table.

Suddenly, she heard a gratingly familiar voice behind her.

"Sweetie! Sweetie, come here," her mother called, somehow appearing behind the girl at a moment's notice, as if she Apparated.

"W-What is it?" the girl asked, fiddling with one of the hems of her dress robes.

**Merlin**, if she had to meet someone amazingly important in these atrocious robes her mother had forced her into…

"Come meet Harry Potter, dear!" her mother said excitedly, a blindingly bright smile on her face.

Viatrix could only stand rooted in place, staring at her mother with her mouth agape, from such a request.

_Oh shite, did she really just jinx herself…?_

The tall woman promptly grabbed her hand, and began dragging the girl through the partygoers, weaving around all the important-looking people. Their babbling was loud enough to drown out her weak protests.

There were dozens of reason why Viatrix wasn't ready to meet **the** Harry Potter—the Boy-Who-Lived, The Chosen One, The Savior of the Wizarding World.

Her dress robes, firstly, were **ugly**. They were too puffy and childish, and an utterly ghastly shade of pink. Not to mention that they were uncomfortable and itchy. Her hair was also in an utter mess, having slipped out of its carefully created updo long ago. To top it off, she was sweaty, and had a pimple on her forehead.

But, noooooo, her mother **insisted**.

"Nonsense!" the woman laughed, her voice booming. "You're an absolute doll, dear—Harry Potter isn't getting away without meeting my little princess!"

The girl scrunched her face up at the very embarrassing choice of words, especially when they were said in such a loud manner.

She finally saw him—the tall, uncomfortable-looking teen with messy, black hair. His scar was visible, amongst the dark locks.

The poor guy looked like he'd just barely escaped from having to talk with someone unpleasant. His eyes were darting around frantically, as if wanting to find an escape route.

Then her mother barreled in, cutting off his search, dragging Viatrix next to her.

Viatrix couldn't help it—her breath caught in her throat, as she gaped at him. She was standing in front of **the** Harry Potter, up **close**!

He was much more handsome in person than he was in photos, with his defined features and charming, ruffled hair—black as his dress robes. His emerald green eyes, which always looked so intense and bright, looked strangely dull.

She couldn't tear her gaze away from those emerald eyes. They were mesmerizing, and so beautiful…

"This is my daughter, Viatrix Reivan," her mother gushed, scooting the girl forwards so she could shake hands with the almost 18-year-old Wizard.

'_It's a pleasure to meet you_' is what Viatrix **should** have said, what she was drilled to say in such situations. It wasn't hard to say, nor was it a rare occurrence—she had said it plenty of times, so many that it was simply ingrained in her.

Instead, Viatrix blurted out, "I like your shoes."

From the corner of her eye, she could see her mother looking completely and utterly **mortified**. But the girl didn't care about her mother's reaction.

No, she didn't care one bit, as she became lost in the amused twinkle that appeared in Harry Potter's eyes. He looked a little more…lively. And he actually looked like he was enjoying the party, for a moment.

"Er…" he said eloquently, looking like he was trying to find something to say. His lips were twitching sporadically; obviously, he was holding back laughter. "Thanks… I like your dress robes."

Viatrix looked down in disdain at the poofy monstrosity that was loosely deemed as 'dress robes'. She wrinkled her nose at the ugly, itchy clothes she wore.

What she said next would treat her to an hour-long lecture from her harried, harking mother, when they were in the confines of the Reivan home.

"Thanks. **I** don't," she stated bitterly.

At that, Harry Potter had a sudden coughing fit behind his fist.

"Please forgive Viatrix—she's usually not like this!" her mother interjected in a voice that had jumped an octave higher, tittering and adjusting her daughter's hair harshly.

The Wizard merely smiled, the twinkle in his eyes akin to that of Albus Dumbledore's. "Don't worry—she's a very funny girl. I'm sure she's great company," he said, looking directly at her at his last statement.

Viatrix beamed, straightening in pride.

This was one of the **best** parties she's ever been to, hands down.

∞U∞T∞O∞P∞I∞A∞

Now, for the last question from the very first section of this chapter. The question that people far and wide—all across the Magical World, even— wondered: _Will Hogwarts be in session this year_?

Now **that** is the question. One that many students, parents, and staff wondered.

But Minerva McGonagall—the head of staff, leader of the Hogwarts rebuilding efforts, and the deputy Headmistress of past years—was **certain** that Hogwarts would be open for the 98/99 school year.

Hogwarts was a constant in the Wizarding World. It was a symbol of hope, of normalcy, for Britain and Scotland. If Hogwarts could rebuild enough to be in session—even a few scant months after its attack and destruction—then it would show that things will be fine, that the Wizarding World could once more function.

Hogwarts opening its doors once more would show that the Wizarding World was truly recovering. Minerva McGonagall was firm in this belief, and did everything in her power to make it come true.

∞U∞T∞O∞P∞I∞A∞

* * *

><p>Extra notes:<p>

-The man found in the second section, who's an Alchemist, is based on an anime character. Because I am trash.

-Claire didn't just get a name drop for no reason. She's showing up next time.

-The next few parts are going to be McGonagall-centric. Hell fucking yeah.

-Daphne gets a last name, for all who were confused and thinking she was Daphne Greengrass.

-I love writing accents, despite how ridiculous it looks.


	4. Ch 1,2: Staffing

AN: _These are the start of McGonagall-centric chapters_. Because I love Minerva McGonagall; she needs more love and appreciation.

Also, we get so start seeing new Professors and the like *rubs hands together* We don't get to see these types of characters in spotlight too often...

* * *

><p>∞U∞T∞O∞P∞I∞A∞<p>

Ch 1.2: Staffing

∞U∞T∞O∞P∞I∞A∞

It was officially August 1st, 1998, and Minerva McGonagall sat in the Headmaster's Office in Hogwarts. She was sitting behind the large mahogany desk, rubbing her temples, a cup of chamomile tea in front of her.

"Oh Albus…Severus…Will Hogwarts truly be able to open its doors…?" she said aloud.

"Why of course, my dear," a genial voice intoned, causing the old woman to jump slightly in her chair.

The voice chuckled. "Did you forget that my portrait is in this very office, Minerva…?" said Albus Dumbledore's Headmaster Portrait in bemusement, his famous twinkle in his blue eyes.

"The stress must be getting to her," came another voice, somewhat snide, yet also familiar. There was Severus Snape's Headmaster Portrait, right next to Dumbledore's. A bemused smirk was on the oily-haired man's face, as he looked critically at the new Headmistress.

"Honestly—you both almost gave me a heart attack!" the woman chided, a wrinkled hand held gently against her chest. "It seems like I **cannot** have a moment alone with my thoughts…"

"Ah—But my dear, you are in need of council," intoned Dumbledore's Portrait wisely. "Even if, in fact, it is from simple enchanted canvases."

"Give me a status report on the rebuilding, and I can will give you a straight answer, rather than ramble on like **this** old coot," added Snape from Dumbledore's left, as he sneered at the elder man.

McGonagall shook her head fondly. "Oh, fine, fine—I suppose that I cannot go more senile if I indulge you two men, just for a bit."

"Wonderful!" beamed Dumbledore, while Snape gave a sneer that almost looked like a grin.

"The outer walls have been rebuilt, the wards have been strengthened, the entry hall has been fortified…" the woman started to tally off. "The Hospital Wing has been re-organized, the Great Hall is reinforced, the southern hallways from floors one through three are up once more, Gryffindor Tower has been rebuilt and warded—" at this, Snape gave a disdainful snort, and Dumbledore's grin grew "—the Eastern Wing has been cleared and almost fully repaired, the Astronomy Tower is halfway finished, Hagrid's Hut has been rebuilt by Hagrid himself…"

"That sounds rather extensive," Dumbledore noted, casually eating a lemon drop in his portrait.

"It seems that the reparations are going well," said Snape curtly. "Which are the areas that still need to be rebuilt?"

"The Room of Requirement, almost all of the Greenhouses, various hallways on the lower floors, Ravenclaw Tower received damage to two years of dormitories, and various ceilings are still weak from destructive spells and the Acromantulas," McGonagall rallied. "In essence, at least a sixth of the castle is still in utter disrepair."

"That is a vast improvement from the damages from the Battle. And in around three months, it is actually rather impressive," Snape noted, a hand on his chin, his brow furrowed.

The old man beamed at his fellow portrait, before giving a grandfatherly smile to his former coworker.

"I believe that you have done a **marvelous** job in the rebuilding effort, Minerva," the quirky wizard stated. "I am **certain** that Hogwarts is habitable, and would be able to start its first term for this year, if you so wish it."

"I do," the woman stated quickly. "By Merlin's long trousers, I do!"

"Then what's holding you back?" Snape sneered. "The Minerva **I** knew would have jumped head-first into announcing the reopening of Hogwarts, and wouldn't hesitate to send out the start-of-year letters."

The woman in question gaped at the portrait, finding herself bristling, despite the fact that she was merely talking to a painting.

"Now, now, m'boy—Any sane Headmaster would be worried," the old man chuckled, adding, "And Minerva has always been the sanest, and the most responsible, of us all."

"Exactly. If **anyone** can organize the staff, send the letters, and reopen the school—it would be Minerva," the oily-haired man stated, whilst the woman looked touched of getting such praise from the two.

Even some of the other portraits murmured and nodded their agreement, very much finding Minerva McGonagall capable of such a task.

The wizened woman straightened to her full height confidentially, giving a brisk nod to the frames. "Then I shall organize the staff, and send the letters during the second week of August. It will give the students little time to gather supplies, but it's better than **not** opening Hogwarts once more."

Both portraits of her former coworkers grinned proudly at her.

"Make sure to re-charm the Registry Book, so that you may find all the Muggleborns. Perhaps you can invite some to start their first year, even if they are a year late—these times seem to call for special circumstances, especially with many wanting to re-take their lost year," Dumbledore advised.

"And don't forget that construction should not be hampered, simply because of classes," Snape added quickly. "There is no shame for rebuilding whilst Hogwarts is open. You'll be able to have Hogwarts rebuilt properly, and quicker, if you simply have restricted sections that are still under repair."

"Thank you both," the old woman said softly, a grateful smile on her face. "For 'simple enchanted canvases', you both were incredibly helpful."

"You inform us regularly of the situation, and feed us information. It makes our abilities for problem-solving much easier," stated Severus. "Unlike Harry, who simply burst into the office to talk to the old coot's portrait, with no time for proper explanations, nor the amount of information needed whatsoever..." at this addition, the dark man gave an exasperated shake of his head, a ghost of a smile on his face.

Dumbledore simply gave a small, benign grin.

"Well, I shall get right on re-staffing this school," McGonagall stated primly. "We need new professors for Defense Against the Dark Arts, Muggle Studies, Alchemy, and Study of Ancient Runes. Not to mention that I will need a co-professor to teach Transfiguration, with my new schedule as Headmistress."

"Then go do so, my girl. I am sure there are many able witches and wizards to take the positions," Dumbledore's portrait said kindly.

Every single portrait watched as Minerva McGonagall, the new Headmistress of Hogwarts, marched resolutely out of the office, to do just that.

∞U∞T∞O∞P∞I∞A∞

Headmistress McGonagall went around the school grounds on that mild Saturday, speaking in low tones to all of her coworkers. She asked them if they would still like to take their positions, once more, in teaching at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry for the upcoming year.

Each and every person agreed enthusiastically and readily. Filius Flitwick gave a squeak and a little jig; Sybill Trelawney threw her arms around her, giving a dramatic, positive response; Rubeus Hagrid gave her a bear-like hug, crying fat, happy tears.

Even Madam Pince and Argus Filch had agreed, which surprised her. Pince said that she had wanted to keep her Library safe. Argus had mentioned, somewhat bitterly, that he wasn't done cleaning and maintaining the school, as long as they still needed to rebuild.

So she would not have to find any new staff for those positions—which made her job **much** easier. She quickly told the Professors to ready their plans for the school year, and to submit their booklists to her by Friday. To Pince and Filch, she thanked them, and told them to be ready on September 1st.

No, the true problem would be to find teachers for those five particular positions that the school needed. It was a complete and utter pain to simply find _two_ Professors for one year—it would be a headache to find **five**, an on such short notice.

However, she already had an idea for two, at this exact moment…

Resolutely, McGonagall marched over to one very particular group that was currently tasked to repair one of the southern corridors on the third floor.

"Excuse me—Mister Elric, Miss Dillon, I need to speak to you both for a particular subject, in private," Minerva McGonagall stated, eying the stout man and woman critically.

Claire Dillon—who still remembered her days as a student of Hogwarts quite clearly—snapped quickly to attention, and agreed readily.

The blonde man with her—Elric, she finally learned, after almost three months of doing volunteer work with him—was more suspicious.

"Vat is it, Professor?" he asked cautiously, his golden eyes matching the old woman's gaze.

Claire felt just a bit miffed by his reaction. Only a foreigner would be so rude, she couldn't help but think.

"That will be addressed in **private**, as I had said before," the severe woman stated, literally staring down the shorter man.

They seemed to be having a battle of wits, through their eyes, before the man relented.

"Alright—I'll go," he stated, and McGonagall gave a curt nod.

"Follow me then, you two," she said in her usual no-nonsense voice, turning on her heel to stride down the corridors, heading towards her office.

The group of three left the group of volunteers to awkwardly stand in the hall, eying each other in confusion. Without the alchemist, and the maternal, somewhat bossy woman…Well, they felt quite lost.

"Guess we should start with some _reparo_," one of the members in the volunteer group muttered, before the others halfheartedly murmured their assent.

1∞1∞1

Claire felt an odd sense of dejavu, as she walked the halls, towards the Headmaster's Office.

'_Headmistress's Office_,' she corrected herself in her mind. It felt odd to think—Professor Albus Dumbledore was the Headmaster for so long, that it still felt a bit alien to think of anyone else leading the school.

The trio didn't speak a word. In a few minutes of scaling the floors to the 7th, they stood in front of the doorway flanked by gargoyle statues.

"Tabby," McGonagall stated, as the gargoyles allowed passage, and they entered into the small waiting room.

"Now, which of you would like to go first?" she asked them crisply, as she whirled onto them, the door sliding closed behind them.

Claire looked at her partner, who stiffened and didn't seem ready to chat any time soon. "I will, Professor," she spoke up—forcing herself to not raise her hand, as if she was still in Transfiguration Class.

The old woman nodded, a smile grazing her lips. "Very well, Miss Dillon. Mister Elric, would you be so kind as to wait here…?"

"Not at all," he stated as he closely surveyed the room, before slowly seating himself on a couch. Claire caught the sight of something bright by his leg. His pant leg had risen slightly when he sat, his **metal** leg peeking through.

Claire filed that observation for later, as she followed her former instructor up the spiraling staircase.

Once seated in the large Headmistress's Office, Claire fidgeted slightly, hoping that McGonagall would explain what was happening.

"Miss Dillon, you've been incredibly helpful with your volunteer work on rebuilding the school," the Professor started kindly, trying to ease the young woman.

"Oh! Oh, um, it's really no problem, Professor," the dark-skinned woman stated, surprised, but pleased.

"Now, I know that you are a very helpful person—since your school days, you've always tutored others, or showed the younger students how to do tasks. You were like a mother to all your peers. It was why you were a Prefect in your day, and later, Head Girl," McGonagall started, watching the young woman's response.

"Thank you, Professor," she stated, her face coloring, as she grinned.

"Now, with all of this in mind…I was wondering if you would like a position at Hogwarts as a Professor, Miss Dillon," the old woman stated, finally dropping the bomb.

Claire froze, eyes wide.

"Me?" she squeaked, her face flaming.

"Yes, you," the usually severe woman said with a chuckle. "I find that you are quite qualified, Miss Dillon—"

"But I'm **awful** at Defense!" the dark-skinned woman protested, waving her hands in front of herself frantically.

McGonagall raised one thin eyebrow, giving a pointed stare that made Claire shrink and calm herself.

"I did not specifically state that I wanted you to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts, now did I, Miss Dillon…?" Minerva McGonagall stated, an oddly Dumbledore-esque twinkle in her eye.

"U-Um…No," Claire stated, oddly meek, feeling quite weak to the knees. She was thankful that she was already sitting down, or else she could have fallen.

"I will tell it to you as it is, Miss Dillon—Hogwarts is in need of Professors, if we are going to open its doors this September. And from your attributes, I find that you would make a marvelous Muggle Studies Professor," McGonagall explained, leaning forwards in her seat slightly.

Claire knew that Minerva McGonagall did not give praise lightly. She was honored and touched that her old instructor had so much faith in her.

After calming and reorganizing her thoughts, Claire realized that this was a golden opportunity. She did, in fact, love helping and teaching. Not to mention that she was a Muggleborn, and could radically upgrade the curriculum for Muggle Studies.

"I'd be **honored** to be the Muggle Studies Professor, Professor McGonagall," the young woman stated resolutely.

The old woman gave a pleased, cat-like smile. "Very good. I have faith that you can whip the course into shape."

"What do I need to do, Professor?" the young woman asked enthusiastically.

"I'm considering on making Muggle Studies mandatory for all Purebloods and Wizard-raised Halfbloods," the Headmistress started. "I believe that it would be wise, so that we do not have a repeat of such blatant Blood prejudice."

"I agree," Claire said wholeheartedly. "I'll make sure to modernize the class as well—Muggles have come a long way, with technology, and their capabilities."

"I was counting on that," the woman stated, before riffling through the cabinets in her desk. "I am going to give you some basic paperwork to fill—things to help you when it comes to lesson plans, course work, booklists, and the like."

Claire watched as a thick stack of parchment was placed in front of her. She quickly took the stack, rifling through it.

"It's August 1st—I assume that I have some vital deadlines to meet…?" Claire queried.

"I would like you to submit a booklist by Friday, so that I may note such on the letters," McGonagall said quickly. "And I would like to thank you for accepting, Professor Dillon."

The old woman gave a kind grin, as Claire bashfully scratched her cheek.

"T-That title will take some time to get used to, Professor," she said, feeling an oddly pleased fluttering in her stomach.

"Minerva will be fine, in private—We are colleagues now, Claire," Minerva said sternly, eying the new Professor over her spectacles.

Claire laughed nervously. "T-That'll take time to get used to, as well…"

"I understand. Just give it time," McGonagall advised, with a knowing smile. She then stood up, and gestured for the younger woman to follow her out of her office. "Now, I believe that Mister Elric is still in the waiting room…"

1∞1∞1

Edward Elric watched as Claire Dillon descended the staircase, looking rather pleased, a stack of parchment in her arms.

"It's your turn now, Elric. She's waiting for you," she told him with a bright grin. "And don't worry—it's nothing bad. Good luck."

He gave her a nod, and she left the room. He considered following her, but decided that he'd rather not be on the receiving end of Minerva McGonagall's Scottish temper.

"I got myself in this, I'll get myself out," he muttered to himself, as he stood gingerly, and made his way up to the Headmistress's Office.

"Please, come and sit, Mister Elric," the old woman intoned, when he entered. They made their ways to their seats, getting comfortable.

"I vould like to get to the heart of the issue, if you don't find, Professor," the blonde started, before the woman could speak. "I'm the type that likes a head-on approach."

"Very well, Mister Elric," she acquiesced. She threaded her hands, leaning forwards in her seat. "Hogwarts need Professors for this school year, and I want **you** to be our new Alchemy Professor."

The blonde man reeled back in his seat, looking aghast. "No vay…"

"Well, you **did** want the 'head-on approach'," the woman stated calmly, her hawk-like eyes on the man.

The blonde made a face, looking like he wanted to destroy something at that particular moment. "Vhy me?"

"Because, Mister Elric, you are simply the best—and only—alchemist I know that has any ties with Britain," McGonagall explained. "Alchemy is simply an elective class at Hogwarts, and it is a rare branch of magic in Britain. Usually Albus would have taught it, since he had worked with Nicholas Flamel…"

"If that's the case, then you should just drop the subject," the man stated crossly. "Don't drag **me** into this."

"Oh, but you already are 'dragged into this', Mister Elric," stated McGonagall darkly. "You've been helping us quite readily in the rebuilding efforts, with your Alchemy—"

"Ja, since my vife is still here in Britain, working in mechanics," he stated, crossing his arms with a huff. McGonagall merely raised a severe eyebrow.

"And even **before** your wonderful help, there was the issue of you readily fighting off the Death Eaters. You became well known as a resistance fighter, with your odd battling style… Using Alchemy and spell-resistant steel weapons to fight the Death Eaters—"

The man suddenly slammed his fist on the desk, elicitating a loud _clang!,_ making the woman twitch.

"Look, I just didn't vant that bastard to hurt any more people! **Especially** since Vinry vas out there, scared and defenseless, as those dark vizards started killing and terrorizing the Muggle vorld of Britain!" he cried out, in defense.

"But did you not use Alchemy when you dueled the Death Eaters? A style eerily reminiscent of your grandfather, Van Hohenheim the Second, during the Global Wizarding World?" McGonagall pressed intently, staring down the shorter man.

"Ja, but—"

"And did you not enter the Academy of Alchemy at the tender age of 8, promptly graduated at 14, entered Essen Magie—the German school of Magic—and then managed to graduate from that second institution of magical education at 17?" she pressed.

Edward Elric sagged slightly, knowing that she had him. His qualifications were too stellar, making him a perfect fit as an Alchemy Professor for one of the best schools of Magic in the world.

"Look, I'm **horrid** vith kids, and I'm a terrible teacher. I get impatient, I'm stubborn, and I vould yell a storm at them," he countered, trying to find a loophole in worming out of the position.

She simply looked amused, however. "There have been worse teachers, Mister Elric. Not to mention, that Alchemy can only be taken by 6th and 7th years who have a recommendation from their Head of House.

They are certainly mature enough, and the class size will be small. If you'd rather not stay in Hogwarts for the majority of your tenure, I can give you periodic leave—you'd simply have to stay here in your teaching and office hours, as well as staff meetings."

The man still looked cross, his eyes sharp enough to kill, but he finally gave a reluctant nod.

"Fine," he spit moodily, looking like a cross child, rather than the adult he was. "But I'll **only** teach Alchemy, and only for the years that Vinry's here in Britain. And you better keep up your bargain, vith the leave."

Minerva McGonagall grinned, pleased. "We are in agreement, then. Congratulations, Edward—you are now the Alchemy Professor for Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

"Not for long," he muttered under his breath, but still stood up to shake the woman's hand in a professional manner.

"Now, for your paperwork…" the old woman trailed off, as she searched through her desk.

Edward groaned. "I **hate** paperwork…"

McGonagall decided to ignore his feeble whining, as she took out a thick stack of parchment, placing it in front of him. "Here are some things to help you when it comes to lesson plans, course work, booklists, and the like. I would like you to submit a booklist by Friday, so that I may note such on the student's letters."

"Vill do," the blonde stated curtly, as he picked up the stack of forms.

"I hope that you can still help us with rebuilding, Edward. Your skills have been vital in Hogwarts opening for this year," McGonagall said, before the man could stomp out.

"I don't do things half-vay, McGonagall. I vouldn't feel right if I did," he said over his shoulder. "You can count on that!"

Minerva McGonagall gave a pleased grin, as the door closed behind the new Alchemy Professor.

"Now, for the Defense Professor…" she muttered, as she took out a quill and piece of parchment to pen a meeting request.

1∞1∞1

_Buck McBride was finally taking a break after a long shift at the Aurors Office, in the cramped familiarity of his flat. It was a place he shared with his close friend, former Housemate, former Dorm mate, and current coworker: Rowan Claibee. It was a somewhat dingy place in Muggle London, but he and Rowan chose it because it was a good distance to be able to crash whenever their long shifts at the Ministry ended, and it was cheap. _

_The disheveled brunette man was nursing a cuppa with a shot of whiskey in it, sitting on an old wooden chair, in the tiny kitchen-slash-dining-room. _

_He __**was**__ taking a break, that is, before something happened to disrupt the irritated, tired man. An owl suddenly flew into his kitchen through the window, wings flapping, knocking over his cuppa._

_Buck cursed colorfully, as he tried swatting the damned bird away. The eagle owl, however, was very hardy and insistent—it beat its wings, talons shining, as it screeched in indignation._

_"Wha' in Merlin's saggy left—Get outta here, ya dumb bird!" Buck roared. "Can't ye see that I'm __**finally**__ takin' a damn break?!"_

_The large eagle owl gave a piercing screech, before diving down and pecking the man furiously on his head._

_"Oi! Stop it!" Buck exclaimed, trying to knock the animal off his head. "Fine, fine—Give me tha shite letter, then!"_

_With an irritated screech, the bird perched in front of him, sticking its leg out. It was glaring venomously at the muscled man, and the two locked eyes in a heated staring contest._

_Snarling, Buck ripped the letter off of the damn bird's leg. It flapped its wings, smacking his repeatedly in the face in revenge, and then flew out of his kitchen window._

_He wished he'd thought of hexing the stupid animal._

_The only evidence of the owl ever being in there was the knocked over mug of coffee, the latter grasped angrily in his hand, and the various feathers littered about the kitchen. If Rowan were to walk in right now, he'd give a short laugh, and then help him to charm away the mess._

_"I can't ever get me a damn second ta breath," the man grumbled tersely under his breath, before looking at the accursed letter that had given him so much grief._

_On the front of the letter, in startlingly familiar writing, came the incredibly specific address of "To Buck McBride, The Small Kitchen, 331 East Baker Street, Muggle London, England"._

_"Tha bloody 'ell is me ol' Head of House doin', sendin' me a letter from Hogwarts…?" he wondered aloud, brow furrowed. He flipped the letter over, and ripped it open._

_"Le'see… Needs ta talk ta me…Earlies' convenience…About Hogwarts openin' this comin' fall…?" he muttered, his eyes widening in confusion with each passing statement. "Wha's tha got ta do with me? She askin' for me help rebuildin'?"_

_"But wait…Then why tha talk, if she jus' wants extra hands…? Merlin, I wish I had me coffee righ' about now," he groaned, passing a hand through his disheveled hair, making it messier. "Oh well—guess I should do it now, when I got tha chance. May not get one later."_

_With that, Buck scribbled a note to Rowan on his activities, and Apparated out of his flat._

1∞1∞1

"Ye want me ta **what**?!" Buck roared, once McGonagall gave her request.

"I think you perfectly heard and understood me, Mister McBride," the woman stated tersely, glaring at him over her spectacles.

"Yer bloody **mad**! I ain't a teacher!" he pushed, looking quite mad himself.

"Nonsense. You are one of the most qualified people I know for this position, Mister McBride," she said sternly.

He gave a harried, scathing laugh. "Right, like ye can jus' take a mad Auror outta tha field, drop 'im in a school full a kids, 'n expect everythin' to turn out well! Remember wha' happened to the ol' coot, Mad Eye?"

"Those were completely different circumstances," McGonagall retorted, voice tight, as she blinked furiously. At the sudden mention of the well-known Auror, Buck sagged, the fight seemingly draining out of him.

"Sorry, I jus'…" he muttered as he ran a hand through his hair, remembering the great man, an air of melancholy around him.

"It's fine, Mister McBride," she said curtly. "However, I believe that your 'madness' will make you a brilliant Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor. You had apprenticed under Alastor and Kingsley for a time, and you're a remarkable Wizard, Auror, and dueler in your own right."

"Doesn't mean that me arse is fit ta teach kids," he muttered crossly. "I got no patience for 'em."

She gave a thin grin. "Another man told me the same thing, earlier today, in this very office. Yet, he accepted. Although patience is important—skill, drive, and ingenuity are also vital. And you have all those attributes, Mister McBride. It's how you were able to become Head Boy."

"A decision I'll never understand, ta be honest," he said, giving a shake of his head. "'Specially when ye teamed me with Dillon, who I couldn't stand fer a long while..."

The old woman chuckled. "I remember those days well—although, I supposed it helped that during your final year, it was Harry Potter's first…Honestly, that boy just never stopped getting in trouble…"

"Speaking o' Potter…Ye sure tha' he—or one o' his buddies—couldn't take tha position…?" Buk asked, his eyes narrowed suspiciously. "I bet me cow Bessie tha he'd be a better teacher then I could."

McGonagall gave him a piercing, disapproving look. "Righ', stupid question, considerin' how much tha lad's been through," he noted belatedly.

"Mister McBride, I rather hope to have a stable, proficient Defense Professor. The last few decades—with the jynx upon the position—has made Defense one of the weakest of the core subjects in Hogwarts, as well as the British Wizarding World at large. It's an incredibly vital subject that's needed for a number of professions, even if the war is over…" here, the woman sighed, looking every single year of her age.

"You're on a **very** limited list of people that could be available to **properly** teach Defense at this school…You don't have to stay for very long, if you're insistent on not wanting to teach. But right now, it is imperative that we start this **somehow**. So—do you accept, or do you decline, Mister McBride?"

Her eyes bore into his so fiercely, that he felt like a spineless little First Year experiencing her glare for the first time, all over again. No matter how old he got, Buck suspected that he would always consider McGonagall his strict Head of House.

Buck grit his teeth, and nodded curtly. "Ye always knew how ta convince me of doin' things I never wanted ta, Professor. Fine—I'll be tha DADA Professor," he relented.

The woman's posture slackened in relief. "Good. Now, let me get you your paperwork…"

At this, Buck sighed, giving a tired groan. "Paperwork's always been tha worst part o' tha job…Fine, hit me."

McGonagall dropped a thick stack of parchment in front of Buck, eliciting a loud thud, causing his nose to wrinkle in disdain. "Feel's like NEWTS all over again," he commented gruffly, as he slowly sifted through the forms.

"I would like you to submit a booklist by Friday, so that I may note such on the letters—" McGonagall started.

"Don't need no books," Buck interjected, as he hauled the forms in his arms.

McGonagall's eyebrows rose up to her hairline. "No textbooks…? But how will you ever organize your lessons?!"

"Don't worry 'bout tha'—I'll find a way," he stated, as he turned to leave the room.

"Well—you still have until Friday, if you change your mind," she said, frowning slightly. "Also, congratulations; you are now the Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor, Buck."

"Joy," he said under his breath, as he left the room and descended the spiral staircase.

Once she was sure that he had left, Minerva McGonagall sagged against her chair. "Three down…"

1∞1∞1

The Headmistress of Hogwarts decided to give a Floo Call to Madame Olympe Maxime, the Headmistress of Beauxbatons. The Frenchwoman had been an ally to the Order of the Phoenix, so it was no trouble for McGonagall to find how to contact her.

She'd decided to use Floo, instead of her wonderfully loyal eagle owl—the trip to and from France would take too long, and she needed these final instructors in short notice. Not to mention that Buck had ruffled up the poor bird, when he went to deliver her meeting request…

McGonagall had asked Maxime during the Floo Call if she knew of any young witches or wizards who were looking for teaching positions. Since Beauxbatons was a famous Magical school, it wouldn't be hard to fathom that they got various applications or requests—especially with France's stability and wonderful climate.

The partial-Giantess responded positively, promising to send resumes and possible candidates over to the older woman.

"'Ogwarts ees in dire need, so I shall do my best, Meenerva," the Frenchwoman promised genially. "I cannot guarantee zat zey will 'ave ze most perfect of Eenglish, 'owever."

"That is fine, Olympe. I trust your judgment," Minerva stated; however, she was crossing her fingers behind her back, for luck. If Maxime sent over another Fleur Delaceur…She wasn't sure if Hogwarts could handle that.

The two women said their goodbyes, and ended the Floo Call.

McGonagall slowly got up from her previous kneeling position, feeling her joints creak in protest, her knees stinging. "Honestly, there should be a Magical version of a fellytone. I'm not as young as I used to be, to make extensive Floo Calls," she muttered under her breath, as she cast a minor healing charm to sooth her stiff legs.

All she could do was keep up her quest of finding teachers, and simply wait until those French recommendations from Maxime came to Hogwarts. It would take a while—especially to wait for those coming from France—but it was all she could do at the moment.

1∞1∞1

_Buck McBride was currently stretched across the lumpy, old couch in his shared flat. He was drinking shots of firewhisky, wondering about his life decisions._

_"'M not cut out fer this…Wha' was me stupid arse even thinkin'?" he said aloud morosely, before glaring at the stack of parchment on the small table next to the couch._

_At that particular moment, his flatmate Rowan Claibee Apparated into the flat._

_Rowan looked curiously at the scene before him. He looked from Buck, to the bottle of alcohol in his hands, to the stack of parchment he was glaring at, and back to Buck._

_Rowan slowly meandered into the kitchen, reading the note that Buck had completely forgotten that he had left for his friend, his blue eyes sharp and contemplative._

_The lanky man exited the kitchen with a glass of brandy, leaning against the back of the couch, and gave the scruffier man a pointed stare._

_"What did you get yourself into, ol' Bucky-boy?" he asked, swirling the drink in his glass, and giving a pointed stare at his best friend._

_"Don' know what ye mean," the other man answered gruffly, before harshly drinking another shot of firewhisky._

_"Drinking your arse off, stack of mysterious parchment you're glaring at, look on your face that could kill the sun itself, and note on the kitchen table that said you were off at Hogwarts because our old Head of House summoned you," the blue-eyed man listed off, in total deadpan. "Again—what did you get yourself into?"_

_"Go eff yerself, Claibee," Buck muttered crassly, firmly avoiding his friend's questions and intent stare._

_"Says the fellow wanker himself. You should probly do that soon—it'll help relieve your stress," his friend retorted swift._

_Buck wrinkled his nose in disgust. "Shut yer damn mouth—'n wash it with soap, while yer at it."_

_Rowan gave a sarcastic bark of laughter. "Buck, we've lived together for over a __**decade**__. I know all of your disgusting, questionable habits, and you know mine," he pointed out bluntly. "There's no shame in talking about this type of thing—unless you'd like a refresher? You see, my boy, when a man and woman love each other very much—"_

_Buck shoved his friend, who simply snickered. "I've lived me life surrounded by livestock, so I knew o' tha' shite __**way**__ before ye ever did, Flax Boy. Also—ye're sick, 'n have no shame."_

_"We're best friends—and close enough to be brothers or soul mates. I know you like the back of my hand, and you can tell me __**anything**__ that's bothering you," Rowan sighed, passing a hand through his closely cropped hair. "So just __**tell**__ me already about your new damn job McGonagall convinced you to take, Buck!" _

_Buck gave him a furious, baffled look, before he rolled his eyes, and slumped down further into the cushions of the couch. _

_"Apparently, I'm gonna be tha new DADA Professor this comin' September," Buck stated dully. "So unless ye got yerself a new broad to split tha rent with, ye should move back with yer family, cuz I ain't roomin' with ye for most o' this year."_

_"Aluma's too independent to, and stubborn, so I doubt she'll move in. It'll be a pain to go back to sharing a house with my little sister, but the Claibee farm __**is**__ bigger than this shite flat," Rowan said thoughtfully. _

_The scruffier man raised an eyebrow in inquiry. "Aluma Cavendash? Ye sure know how to pick 'em…" he scoffed._

_"At least __**I'm**__ getting a good lay. How long was it, since you had a girl…?" Rowan said playfully, taking the mickey on his friend._

_"Ye should shut yer damn mouth, before I hex it off," grunted Buck through grit teeth._

_"Hey, don't be so bitter! Maybe if you and Claire had hooked up, like the usual Head Boy and Girl tradition…"_

_At that, Buck gave a roar, jumping off the couch. Red-faced and looking murderous, he started shooting hexes at his best friend. The other brunette simply laughed, already expecting such an action, darting backwards. Drink still in hand, he dodged each one with ease._

_Buck completely forgot about the issue of his new position as Professor, as he dueled his best friend in their cramped flat. After about five minutes, they stopped, laughing and shoving each other, before they dropped onto the couch and shared the rest of the bottle of firewhisky._

∞U∞T∞O∞P∞I∞A∞


	5. Ch 1,3: Staffing (Part 2)

**AN**: I'm still insane for writing about this story when I'm swamped with college work. But god damn it do I love the OCs and McGonagall, so I'll keep doing it.

Next chapter, the issues on attendance and acceptance letters gets attention.

* * *

><p>∞U∞T∞O∞P∞I∞A∞<p>

Ch 1.3: Staffing (Part 2)

∞U∞T∞O∞P∞I∞A∞

The next day—August 2nd, a Sunday—was just as stressful and nerve-wracking for Minerva McGonagall as the day before.

She was busying herself with the reopening of the school so much, that she completely skipped lunch. A very concerned Hera Sinclair came up to the Headmistress's Office to personally give her a tray of lunch.

Hera was a portly witch in her late thirties, a former student of McGonagall—first attending Hogwarts during the fourth full year of Minerva having taught Transfiguration.

"Professor, you really shouldn't miss meals…It's not good for your health," the portly woman said, a frown on her usually genial face.

Minerva sighed morosely. "Yes, I know. However, I've been swamped in work, with wanting to re-open the school…" at this, the severe woman waved her wand, organizing a space on the desk for the tray of lunch.

Hera brightened as she set the tray down. "Oh—that's brilliant! Not the workload; that Hogwarts is back. You really are amazing, Professor."

The Headmistress flicked her wrist at the other woman. "Oh, posh—you're only saying that. I am considering that this is a tactic to get me to eat lunch."

The portly woman giggled. "If I were anything other than a Hufflepuff, then maybe. Now, if you need any help…"

"You've already helped us enough, Hera. Your efforts on keeping the rebuilders fed and healthy have reached past even Pomona's reach," the older woman stated, gesturing to the tray. "As seen here."

"Well, I couldn't just let my Professor starve herself, whilst she worked herself to the bone…You're not as springy as you used to be, Minerva," Hera said with a bemused smile.

Said woman sipped at the cup of vegetable soup provided, giving a pointed, sharp look over the small bowl.

"No offense," the younger woman added, still smiling in a jolly manner.

"Hmm…Your food is as good as always, Hera. What of your restaurant—the one that you had opened years ago…?"

"Oh, Hera's Haven? It's doing quite well. We have a 5-star rating—that's the highest rating in the food industry, in the Muggle world," the restaurant-owner supplied, and McGonagall's eyebrows reached her receding hairline.

"With your expertise on food, I honestly should not be surprised…" the older woman replied in-between bites of the decker sandwich provided.

"Oh, you flatter me, Professor," the portly witch stated, cheeks rosy. "Enough of me—is your staffing situation doing well…?"

Minerva gave a sigh, as she rubbed the bridge of her nose. "I still need two Professors—one for Transfiguration, and one for Ancient Runes. Unless you know of someone…"

The other woman frowned, giving a sad shake of her head. "I always did well in Transfigurations, because of your help, but my main expertise is in Charms. I also have my hands full, making the bulk of catering and requests for my restaurant, since I am the only staff member who knows magic…"

Minerva nodded resolutely, having already known the answer, before her previous student had spoken. She nibbled on a bread roll in contemplation.

"Then there is the issue of retirement, for some…I am fairly certain that Rolanda, Argus, and Horace are considering the option in the near future…" she started. "I also recently learned that the woman that stocks and passes the food trolley on the Hogwarts Express has recently retired—Apparently, all those events befalling the train in the past few years has tired the poor woman."

"That's quite a bit on your plate, Professor," Hera noted. "Perhaps I can help you with at least the last issue on your long list…"

"Pardon?" Minerva asked quizzically, after she took a drink of pumpkin juice.

The younger woman gave a wide grin. "If you need a food trolley lady, then look no further! I'd **love** to take the position—the trolley was always the best part of the train ride."

The Headmistress blinked owlishly, cup halfway from her mouth.

"Oh. Well, that certainly solves **one** of my issues," she said blearily, still in disbelief. "Thank you very much, Hera."

"It's really no problem, Professor!" the woman giggled happily. "Now, just make sure that you're eating, and you don't overstress yourself!"

Minerva flicked her wrist. "Yes, yes—Honestly, I already have Pomona on my backside, I do not need another meddling witch to hark on my health," she said somewhat dismissively, a smile on her face despite her harsh words.

"Well, I'll leave you to it—I'm anxious to check on everyone," Hera stated, giving a small curtsy to the Headmistress, before she exited the large office.

Minerva carefully wiped her mouth with a napkin, giving a content sigh.

One less issue for her to deal with…And Hera Sinclair's food really **was** absolutely and utterly divine.

1∞1∞1

An hour before dinner would be served, Minerva McGonagall was completely **baffled** when the door of her office slammed open.

In front of her stood a student she wished she did **not** have to deal with later in life, after their incredibly chaotic education at Hogwarts.

"Surprise, bitch—I bet you thought you'd seen the last of me," stated Adrenaline Rush confidentially from the doorway of the Headmistress's Office, hands on her hips.

"How did you manage to get inside this office…?" McGonagall queried, voice tight and mildly disturbed.

**None** of the office's charms or wards went off before the girl's arrival. Not to mention that very few people knew the password to enter the office in the **first** place…

"Curse Breaker," the visitor stated, giving a shark-like grin.

McGonagall paled. She had forgotten that Adrenaline Rush was actually madly brilliant enough to gain the OWLs and NEWTs for various dangerous professions, despite her incredibly volatile personality and poor study habits. With those superb test results under her belt, she could have qualified for being a Curse Breaker, or even an Auror.

She was quite different from Fred and George Weasley—who were brilliant, but didn't put effort into their educations.

Adrenaline Rush had caused blatant destruction and pandemonium when she was in school, not even channeling such destructiveness through pranks, like the Weasly twins. She'd been a year older than the twins—and only got in less trouble than them, because she was alone, whilst the boys were a pair.

Her insane feats paled into comparison to the things that Harry Potter went through, so attention on her had been put on the back burner ever since Harry entered school. Thankfully, she seemed to have calmed down during her Fourth Year, miffed and uninspired after all the attention her younger classmates were getting. She was simply one more quirky, somewhat lazy, Gryffindor.

But now that she was out of the school, and in a dangerous profession that could use her genius and talents—it seems as if she gained back her equilibrium, and was terrifyingly chaotic once more.

"To what do I owe the…_pleasure_, of your visit, Miss Rush?" The Headmistress asked tartly, her entire body stiff.

The girl—woman, McGonagall had to remind herself. Despite how young and energetic she was, she was 21 or 22 now—gave a lopsided smirk.

It unnerved Minerva, seeing such madness in her bright eyes. It was a blessing that Voldemort never managed to recruit her, and that Miss Rush was too stubborn of character to ever follow his beliefs.

"I heard you needed some help, my dear old Head of House," Adrenaline stated serenely, as she walked slowly into the room. "See, I finally got some off-time, and decided to come back to good ol' Britain to see how things were goin'."

"I saw how much progress you all made, with Hogwarts, and I started poking around a bit. And low and behold—I heard from a little someone that Hogwarts was opening, and they needed instructors!" she went on, a bright smile on her face.

"So here I am!" she added, spreading her arms apart, as she stopped in front of McGonagall's desk. "**Eager** to help."

The old woman's mouth became so taut, that it was a barely visible line on her face.

"And what position would you like to have, if you are applying, Miss Rush…?" McGonagall asked professionally, staring at the young woman from above her spectacles.

"DADA?" Adrenaline asked, a smirk on her lips.

"Sadly enough—that position is already taken," stated the old woman, sighing internally in relief.

'_Thank you, Buck, for accepting yesterday_,' the Headmistress crowed in her mind.

Adrenaline frowned, looking perplexed. "Seriously? I coulda sworn that you'd need a DADA Professor…"

"We did—However, someone has already taken that position. We're not in need of another Defense Professor," the old woman stated.

"Huh," the girl stated blandly, looking oddly thoughtful. "Which positions are open, then?"

"Study of Ancient Runes," said McGonagall tersely, stopping herself from mentioning Transfigurations. Miss Rush had always been proficient in the subject, but the Headmistress personally wanted to keep her sanity intact, thank you very much.

Adrenaline pouted. "But Runes are so booooring to teach," she whined. "Using them's all fine and good, when you're out in the field—but actually makin' it your profession? I'd rather eat Newt Eyes than go through with that!"

"I'm afraid that's the only position open," the older woman lied through grit teeth.

"Oh, come on! I didn't help fix an entire stretch of ceiling, fished for information, managed to get the password to your office, disabled all the layers of enchantments on the place, enter in an **wicked** way—just for you to not have anything!"

"I'm afraid so, Miss Rush," McGonagall stated, giving her a pointed stare.

"You sure that none of the staff wanted to retire this year…?" the Curse Breaker wheedled. "I swear on my piercings that Madam Hooch had always wanted to retire! You **sure** you don't need a Quidditch ref and Flying teacher?"

Minerva McGonagall closed her eyes, wishing for patience and sanity, as well as strength.

Rolanda Hooch always **had** said that she wanted to retire soon…

'_I hope I don't regret this decision_,' the Headmistress prayed internally. '_And I hope that Miss Rush doesn't cause enough property damage to negate the positive affects of this…_'

"Madam Hooch has decided to retake her position as Flying teacher and Quidditch referee. However, she **does** need a successor," McGonagall stated. "You were always particularly close to her, and we have had problems in past years with proper Quidditch referees not being available for a number of matches."

"So if you are certain of this choice—you may become a co-Referee and Flying Instructor, if you so desire," McGonagall ended, trying to stay as stoic as possible.

Adrenaline's expression brightened like a child during Christmas. "I'll take it! You've got yourself a co-ref and Flying Prof!"

"Good," the old woman nodded tersely, watching the young woman do an energetic little dance. "Now, for the paperwork…"

In less than a minute, the young woman had bolted from the Headmistress's Office, whooping in joy, a stack of parchment in her arms.

Minerva McGonagall rubbed at her temples. "**Merlin**, I hope Rolanda can keep her in line…" Despite her misgivings, there was a ghost of a smile on her face.

Adrenaline had still been one of her little lions, after all, no matter **how** much trouble she had caused as a student.

∞U∞T∞O∞P∞I∞A∞

August 3rd passed by, in a whirl of paperwork. The Headmistress hadn't even cracked the Book of Admittance to see the current student situation yet, intent on getting the paperwork and staffing situation out of the way first.

**Why** did these type of positions always have so much paperwork…? It utterly **confounded** her, sometimes…

The day was somewhat gray and dreary, not looking particularly pleasant for a visit. Which was unfortunate, as any day now, Olympe Maxime's recommendations would arrive to the school…

The old woman tried to push that from her mind, so she could focus on her current task of filling out the forms needed for the staff this school year. The stack she'd given the newly-minted Professors was like comparing a housecat to a lion—the amount they'd been given was miniscule to what **she** had to do.

Whilst riffling through her large desk, Albus Dumbledore's portrait suddenly spoke up.

"My dear, if you tap the bottom-left panel of that drawer there—yes, the one you are rifling through, and cast a reverse-locking ward…"

McGonagall quizzically followed the painting's directions. Inside the panel was apparently a hidden space, charmed as a hiding place. One of the items she found was a small, leather-bound book.

"Open the book to page thirty-six…Second-to last spell," the man said with a twinkle in his eyes.

The woman give a quizzical, sharp glance, before doing so.

"_Loremimple Ipsus_…An _Information-Filling_ spell?" The woman queried, eyebrows drawn.

"It's a little spell I came across in my studies, that I tweaked just a bit," Dumbledore started genially. "It was my secret to paperwork, all the years I was Headmaster."

McGonagall's jaw dropped to the stone floor. "A special spell for paperwork?!" she asked, voice high and taut. "**That's** how you did it, all those years…?"

The portrait chuckled, the twinkle in his eyes incredibly bright, despite only being paint. "I can show you how to cast it, if you so—"

"Yes!" McGonagall agreed instantly. "**Merlin**, Albus—Why had you never shown me this before?!"

Dumbledore smiled benignly. "There was never the opportune moment…," he said vaguely, whilst Snape's portrait suddenly gave a loud snort.

"He wanted his Paperwork Spell all to himself," the neighboring portrait sneered, amusement obvious in his eyes. "A month into my role as Headmaster, his portrait suddenly broached the topic, identical to what you've found yourself in."

Minerva McGonagall felt as if she could weep with joy, with this holy spell in her grasp.

'_Dumbledore, you __**magnificent**__ bastard_…'

1∞1∞1

Minerva McGonagall cheerfully charmed her paperwork, elated at how all the information filled itself upon the parchment concisely. It had been thirty minutes, and she had managed to complete more forms than she could do in nine hours of nonstop writing.

The Information-Filling spell could fill any parchment surface—it simply took the knowledge from one's mind, and imprinted it upon the parchment. Since Minerva had been Deputy Headmistress for such a long tenure, she already knew all the paperwork by memory—making this new process a **very** quick and smooth one.

The Headmistress felt like the task of the new school year was closer to her grasp, from this turn of events. She couldn't thank the old coot's portrait enough…

Suddenly, there came a tapping at her window. With a simply flick of her wand, the window opened—and in flew a carrier pigeon.

McGonagall eyed the white pigeon that settled on her desk in disbelief. Carrier pigeons were more of a Muggle construct, having been popular during the time of the Global Wizarding War in the Muggle World. She had never seen this type of bird used to deliver messages for any Magical folk before…

The white bird looked regally up at her, giving a sophisticated _coo_, as it puffed its chest out. Tentatively, the old woman reached forwards, opening the small carrying device, and taking out a slip of thin parchment.

The parchment was incredibly light, and thin—resembling the paper that Muggles loved so much. It was silky to the touch, as she unfurled the small thing.

_'I have just arrived in Hogsmeade, and will be at Hogwarts shortly. Please prepare for my arrival, and subsequent interview—S. Le Bel'_ was scrawled on the surface. The writing was small and thin, able to fit inside the scrap, yet was overtly loopy and sophisticated calligraphy.

The woman noted that there was a stamp, located on the back and lower-right corner. It was of a dove, surrounded by branches—a coat of arms, of some sort.

"How odd…" the woman murmured. "Le Bel—so this must be one of Olympe's recommendations…"

1∞1∞1

Whilst the Headmistress puzzled and pondered over the message she received, there was a small commotion at the entrance of the castle.

Some volunteer groups had been out and about outside. For example, there was one trying to repair and reconstruct the greenhouses, and another debating their next course of action in front of the grand double-doors.

Out of seemingly nowhere, in an incredibly sudden manner, a large bird swooped across the grounds, catching everyone's attention.

Hagrid gave an appreciative whistle, from his position outside of his newly constructed hut. "Tha' be a fine albino peacock! Wha' a sight!"

The peacock was incredibly mesmerizing, as is serenely traversed the school grounds. It hovered gracefully a few yards in front of the front doors—turning into a handsome young man dressed in dated and well-crafted Muggle clothing, before touching the ground.

A wand was at his throat, before he could take another step.

"Who are you? Vhat is your business here?" asked the Alchemy Professor sharply, his gaze steely. The bird-turned-man simply sneered at the short blonde.

"Elric!" the Muggle Studies Professor squeaked out, rushing over and forcefully lowering his wand arm. "He's a guest!"

"Germans are always so rough," the young man deadpanned, glaring down his nose at the German.

"Wand **down**!" the harried Muggle Studies Professor hissed to her coworker, who's wand was pointing at the young man's face once more.

"You would do well to listen to your companion, _monsieur_. I am 'ere, invited by Madam Minerva McGonagall," the young man said importantly, straightening his tailored coat. "I can provide ze letter as evidence, if I must."

"No, no—that's fine!" the stout woman interjected, giving a sharp look at her fellow Professor, warning him to not act out again.

"Ja. Fine," spit out the German, still eying the younger man warily, as he put away his wand once more.

The young man gave a charming smile, as if he had not received hostility. "Thank you," he stated, before taking the stout woman's hand, giving it a gentlemanly kiss. "Especially you, _mademoiselle_."

"O-Oh, it was nothing!" she stuttered out, her face darkening with a blush. "Just being _polite_," she added, shooting a look at her coworker, who was rolling his golden eyes in exasperation.

"Well, good manners seem to be rare, zese days—so I commend you for your upbringing, madam," he said charmingly. He then gave a curt nod to the woman's coworker, strolled around them, and promptly entered the castle.

"_Frenchmen_," Elric scoffed under his breath, shaking his head in disgust as the back of the tailored coat left his field of vision.

"Well, I thought he was nice!" the stout woman huffed. "And there's a good chance that he could be our coworker, so you better get along with him!"

"Ja, Ja," he said dismissively, giving an eye roll. "Doesn't stop me from not liking him, though…"

1∞1∞1

Minerva was jolted out of her reverie, when a voice filtered through the room. It came from a small magical device on her desk, Runes etched into the item.

"_Mister gargoyles…Or perhaps, Madam McGonagall? May I please be given permission to enter zis office?_" an incredibly French voice queried. The peculiar item flashed for a moment, showing the words '_Guest from France_' on its surface.

"That's odd…This item never showed **voices** before…" the old woman murmured, eyebrows risen to her hairline. "This Wizard must be very capable…"

With a few complicated wand movements, Minerva made it so that the statues moved out of the way, and the stone door open. She waited, until she saw from another little device on her desk, the person standing in front of her door.

The young man gave a polite knock, and Minerva told him to enter.

The blonde strolled languidly in the room, taking in his surroundings with interest, before stopping in front of her desk. He eyed the white pigeon, his eyes alighting.

"Madam Minerva McGonagall—I assume zat my pigeon adequately gave you my message of arrival?" he asked politely, hands held behind his back properly.

"Indeed. Although, I was waiting for another type of bird to appear. This is the first time I have received mail from a pigeon," the woman replied curtly, though still obviously bemused.

"Nyra was too proud to simply send a message," the man said, in a way of explanation. "My wonderful pet, Sakuya—" the pigeon gave a _coo_, synching up precisely with the second syllable of his name "—was all too eager to oblige."

Minerva—and every Headmaster and Headmistress in the room—found the entire thing amusing. Dumbledore especially looked like he wanted to pet the proud, adorable pigeon.

The young man did a small movement of his hand, and the pigeon flapped his wings, taking flight. The bird landed on the man's shoulder, who didn't look bothered or fazed with the outcome.

The sight of a blonde young Frenchman, in finely tailored and old-fashioned Muggle clothing, standing tall, with a pigeon perched on his shoulder…It was as if one was looking at a parody of pirate. Give the blonde a sword and a hat, and he could pose for the cover of a novel.

Minerva McGonagall had seen many sights in her time, but never had she seen something like **this**. Years of keeping a firm, professional face kept her from laughing in the man's face, from the oddity of the entire situation.

To top off the irony and absurdity of the sight, the young man stood proudly, looking as if he thought the world of himself. If any other tried—such as Draco Malfoy, in his earlier years—then it would definitely have failed.

"Well, I am glad to have you here, Mister…" McGonagall finally said, fishing for his full name.

"Saffron Le Bel," the blonde stated proudly, embellishing his name in a very ridiculous, very _French_, manner. "It is a pleasure," he added, bowing extravagantly, before taking one of the old woman's hands and placing a small kiss on the back of it.

Minerva felt oddly flustered, and could literally hear Snape's jeers and Dumbledore's merriment in her head. Shaking herself slightly, trying to ignore all the interested portraits in the room, she spoke once more.

"Take a seat, Mister Le Bel. We shall commence with your interview, posthaste," she said, motioning at the chair in front of her desk. The Frenchman nodded in assent, gracefully sitting in the chair, his pigeon still perched firmly on his shoulder through the ordeal.

"I 'ave brought my resume, as well as ozer materials," Saffron spoke up, reaching into his tailored coat. He handed the woman a few scrolls of parchment, which Minerva took.

She was grateful that he brought such things. A list of Olympe's possible recommendations came just yesterday night, as well as small summaries accompanying each name.

Minerva was so bleary-eyed and tired, that she only took a quick look through the list itself. She barely remembered the information. One thing she **did** retain was that Le Bel was from a staunch Pureblood family, which worried her.

She looked through the scrolls of parchment, detailing such details as his OWLs and NEWTS, his academic proficiency, his familial ties, and previous activities and experience.

It was obvious that this proud young man was academically gifted. He had a number of OWLs and NEWTS, and particularly excelled in Transfigurations.

"You are highly academic...With your highest proficiency in Transfigurations," she noted, turning the sheaf of parchment in her hand. "You have also tutored various students in the subject, whilst you attending Beauxbatons, giving you important experience in the field."

"Transfiguration is my passion," the man started, a pleased, starry-eyed look on his face. "All accidental magic I 'ave done 'as been Transfigurations, in fact."

"Interesting," she commented, before looking closely at his general resume. One particular fact—something noted by the French Ministry of Magic, with a wax seal—caught her attention.

"You are an animagus as well? That is a highly difficult skill to possess. Only the most talented in the field can achieve this rare branch of magic," she noted, eyebrows raised high on her forehead. A small, pleased grin was on her face.

Saffron puffed his chest out, straightening his coat slightly. "Of course—I would not consider myself a Transfiguration aficionado if I was not an animagus."

"Care to entertain an old woman with your transformation?" McGonagall asked, a small twinkle in her eye.

With nary a twitch, the young man in front of her morphed into an elegant white peacock, who turned his head up proudly. The albino pigeon was still perched on his shoulder, making the sight bizarre, rather than amazing.

After a few seconds of preening, he turned back into a man once more.

"Very smooth transitioning," she noted, lips upturned slightly.

"Thank you," he said pristinely, perfectly enunciating the words like an Englishman.

She flipped through the documents once more. Saffron Le Bel's entire resume was pristine. The only thing he lacked was proper teaching experience—but even then, he had quite the number of recommendations for his case.

He also seemed very responsible and sane, if a bit proud. He passed everything else with flying colors.

The only thing that bothered Minerva was the small background she received on him, from Olympe's summary. That Saffron was from a very staunch, traditional French Pureblood family.

How would he act, towards his colleagues? His Muggleborn students? Will he be cruel and biased?

Minerva McGonagall did **not** want the students to have to experience such blatant blood prejudices in Hogwarts' walls.

She'd have to settle the matter, here and now. If the man stormed out of the room, never to return, then so be it. It would be for the sake of the school, and that was good enough incentive for her.

"Your application is very impressive, Mister Le Bel," McGonagall started, and the young man's expression brightened. "Except for **one** thing…"

Saffron's face fell slightly, a nervous glint in his eyes. "What is it, Madam…?" he asked tightly, the pallor of his face looking slightly pasty.

"You are the heir to the Le Bels, I would harry a guess?" she asked, watching him critically.

The blonde straightened, expression colder and more arrogant. "Yes. I am the son of the current Head of the Le Bels, and the next in line."

"The House of Le Bel are a very old, very _traditional_, French Pureblood House, are they not?" she asked, somewhat icily. "I'm afraid that Hogwarts will not tolerate any more discrimination—"

Suddenly, the blonde man stood up, enraged. His seat flew back, landing on the floor, and the air around him crackled with magical energy. His faithful pigeon gave a startled sound, before flying swiftly out of the open window.

"Discrimination?! Zat is what you are doing to me, at zis very second!" he roared. For the first time since entering the office, Saffron Le Bel was not carefully controlling or masking his emotions.

"I am **sick** and **tired** of being judged upon the actions of my forefazers—sick of my _Papa_ always looming over me, never allowing me to do **anyzing** for myself, to do anyzing **good**!" he ranted, slamming a hand on the desk.

"Does it **look** like I am going to burst into fanatical preaching? Zat I must despise **everyzing** Muggle? Can I not 'ave my own personality—my own appreciation, my own hobbies, my own **life**?"

"If I 'ated ze Muggles, do you zink I would dress like zier old fashions? Do you zink I would 'ave a carrier pigeon? Zat I would enjoy Muggle classical music? Zat I would take various vacations, to simply traverse ze Muggle worlds across Europe, to see and appreciate all zey 'ave to offer? Am I filthy and rotten as my _Papa_ 'as said of me, for doing zese zings, for not despising zem like a '_proper_' Pureblood?!" he asked furiously.

When he got no answer from the woman, he furiously asked once more. "Am I?!"

"No, I do not think so," McGonagall stated calmly, giving a sharp look over her spectacles. "And I believe your outburst was enough proof, Saffron."

The young man stood, gaping at the old woman, his anger finally sputtering out. With weak legs, he slowly sunk back into his armchair, eyes wide.

"_Mon Dieu_…Forgive me…I did not know what…What came over me," he muttered breathlessly, looking utterly horrified of his actions.

Hair ruffled, coat askew, pasty face—he looked quite awful, compared to his usually composed self.

At that moment, Saffron Le Bel felt like he completely and utterly **ruined** his chances of becoming a Professor. His actions would be a large blemish on his record—and who would hire him, after the Headmistress of such a famous magical school put his actions and a warning on his forms?

"As long as you do not burst into enraged ranting every time such concerns of you are raised, then I do not see the problem," the old woman stated, oddly calm, not a hair out of place in her strict bun.

"Is zat so…?" he asked, feeling detached from his body.

'_I suppose Papa was right. I am foolish,_' he thought to himself. '_How did this happen to me…? I simply wanted to escape my cage, to enjoy flight, and look what happened…_'

Whilst Saffron contemplated on living the rest of his life among the albino peacocks at Malfoy Manner, Minerva McGonagall spoke once more, breaking him out of his reverie.

"Now—I would like to state, that you will only be able to teach years one through five, for your first few years with us. I myself will be teaching the Advanced Transfiguration courses, to help prepare the students for their NEWTs."

"Pardon?" Saffron asked, hope filling his body. "T-Teaching…?"

"Yes, Mister Le Bel. Is that not why we are having this interview—because you wanted to teach Transfiguration at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry?" the woman said patiently, giving him a pointed look.

"You still want me as a Professor?" the blonde man asked, baffled. "After zat outburst—after all of zose zings that I said?"

"Once again—as long as you do not repeat such a thing every instance someone doubts your intentions, then yes," she stated curtly, giving an exasperated sigh. "Now, are we done reviewing this issue, Mister Le Bel?"

"I…" he started, still looking baffled. "Yes. Thank you," he finished weakly, as he gave himself a small pinch.

The spot hurt.

So, this was real, then. Saffron wasn't sure how he should react.

"So, I would teach years one through five…?" he asked, hope and happiness filling his being.

"Yes, Mister Le Bel, that is correct," McGonagall confirmed, a bemused look in her usually serious eyes.

"I zink I can 'andle zat…" he noted. "And I will 'ave a very experienced co-Professor to 'elp me, so I am confident of my abilities."

"Very good," she said, giving a smile. "Congratulations, Saffron—you are now the new co-Professor for Transfigurations at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

The new Professor gave an elated grin, jumping up quickly out of his seat to shake her hand warmly and enthusiastically.

"Thank you very much, Madam McGonagall—I will not make you regret your decision," he said enthusiastically, genuine joy alighting his face brightly.

This was probably one of the biggest accomplishments of his life.

'_Take __**that**__, Papa_,' he thought smugly, full of pride. '_I can accomplish great things on my own, things that I actually __**enjoy**_.'

1∞1∞1

Saffron Le Bel soon left the Headmistress's Office with a stack of paperwork—a prideful smile, that didn't have to do with his status or family name, alighting his face.

As he stepped out into the chilly, dreary day, his faithful pigeon perched himself once more on his shoulder. Saffron quickly shifted the parchment in his arms, to be able to touch his bird.

"_Sakuya_," the man cooed, stroking the pigeon's back fondly. "_I'm sorry for scaring you earlier. However, I got the job. Hogwarts will be your new home, in the months to come, so I hope you will like the castle._"

The pigeon gave a reassuring _coo_, and Saffron smiled.

"_Yes, the weather is god-awful here_," he started, whilst walking steadily down the dirt path that lead towards Hogsmeade. "_But there is a world of opportunity for us, here. We are no longer shackled by my father. We have no longer a reason to hide. We can be free._"

His animal companion gave a questioning noise.

"_Oh, you could tell? Yes—I have been more genuinely happy here in Britain than I have been in any other country. Odd, since we are rivals. But perhaps that simply makes everything all the more delightful."_

Saffron walked, talking to his pigeon, the entire way to his lodgings in Hogsmeade. It didn't matter to him if it was odd—he was too happy to care.

∞U∞T∞O∞P∞I∞A∞

Throughout the day, one other visitor from France came to speak to Minerva McGonagall about a teaching position.

The woman was inquiring about the Defense Against the Dark Arts position. However, her qualifications weren't as spectacular as Buck McBride's.

After all, the war had showed that field experience was more powerful and useful than simply theory or the written word. The interested woman simply didn't have that experience, nor any actual teaching experience to make her a better choice.

Buck would have groaned in disappointment, if he knew of Minerva turning down someone more willing for his position.

However, Minerva was firm in her belief in Buck's abilities, and she regretfully informed the French woman that she had managed to find and hire someone for the DADA position before her.

Minerva asked if the Frenchwoman perhaps wanted another position. But the woman huffed and walked out of the room, after giving an icy goodbye.

Minerva then gave Olympe Maxime of Beautbatons a Floo Call, deciding that she didn't want such an event to happen once more, because of a lack of updating lists of the open positions.

The old woman informed the half-giantess that she only needed one more Professor, and that she had accepted Saffron Le Bel. Olympe was happy for Hogwarts, and stated that she will surely update and inform her recommendations of the changed list.

Apparently, that narrowed down the list down to 3 or 4 persons who would be interviewed for the last position. And they had a few days to arrive and have their interview.

Minerva sat in her desk, drinking a cup of tea, giving a content sigh.

She was making progress.

∞U∞T∞O∞P∞I∞A∞

* * *

><p>Notes:<p>

-Yes, Adrenaline used a Tumblr meme. And yes, she's a bit crazy. Think of Bellatrix who doesnt hate Muggles, with a penchant for destruction like the Weasley twins.

-Dumbledore is _totally_ the type of person to keep something as amazing as a Paperwork Spell to himself. He's also never shown doing anything mildly resembling paperwork in the books, and it's McGonagall who's had to send the admittance letters and all that.

-Saffron is an OC based on the white pigeon from the pigeon dating sim, Hatoful Boyfriend. He's made by Hoprocker.

-I also wanted a snooty Pureblood family in France, so that's the Le Bels. It's ironic, because the Malfoys were originally French, and they're a poster-child for that in Britain.

-Saffron and Draco are actually foils of one another. Saffron becomes embittered of his father and hates him, and goes after his own interests despite his father chaining him down. He's also kinder and likes Muggles, even if he's still stuck up and hides his kindness.


End file.
